


The Bawd and the John

by toesohnoes



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Failboats, M/M, brothel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesohnoes/pseuds/toesohnoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Manor is an exclusive brothel that has been run by the Xavier family for years. As the leader of the mutant world and a regular patron, Erik has found himself addicted to its delights - thanks in no small part to its mysterious and charming owner. When Erik finds out that Charles has more than a few secrets up his sleeve, it leads to paranoia, politics, and more than a little flailing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 4

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/6084.html?thread=8577220#t8577220) kink meme prompt. _charles runs a brothel. the students work there. erik is one of their best clients, but what charles doesn't know is that he never sleeps with anyone - he's just there on the offchance he might get to talk to charles (who doesn't do it for money anymore), because in erik's fucked up little brain, that makes total sense._

Mystique spreads out before him, blue and beautiful against the red sheets. Her yellow eyes watch his every movement, snake-fast. He travels up the inside of her thigh, kissing the scales that mark his path.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer something else?" she asks.

She _always_ asks.

"You are a goddess," he reminds her. His fingers stroke the underside of her knees, light enough to make her laugh as she spreads them further for him. "Never forget that."

"I wouldn't," she says - confident and haughty. He taught her that. She props herself up on her elbows, even though he's hardly reached her mound yet. "Charles is dropping by tonight. I thought you might want to know."

A muscle in his cheek twitches. There is no innocent reason why he might want to be informed that the owner of this opulent brothel will be stopping by his establishment. He's met the man a handful of times, including one night-long chess match. Nothing more than that. They're not even friends.

Yet Mystique's eyes glint with something like a challenge.

He breathes through his nose. "Thank you," he spits.

With tongue, fingers and cock, he makes her climax to keep her quiet. If there's something more enthusiastic than usual about the way he fucks, she is wise enough not to mention it.

*

When Erik had first heard of this place, it had sounded like a myth: a haven for mutants, with orgies and pillow fights in every room. The myth doesn't mention the hefty price tag attached to those fantasies, but Erik had headed straight there nonetheless.

His first appointment had been with a woman he hardly remembers now; he does remember Charles, who had met him at the doorway with a gentle smile and firm handshake. "You must be Erik," he had said. "We've been expecting you."

He'd placed a hand on Erik's upper arm and led him into a lavishly furnished hallway where attractive men and women lounged and talked together.

That had been the first day. That had been the moment he had started to fall in love.

*

Five years later, he still makes time to visit at least once a month. It's an addiction, he's sure.

The consorts (not whores, never whores: Erik has personally witnessed Charles's reaction to hearing that word flung in anger, and he doubts if the poor sod who said it has ever been the same again) are beautiful, intelligent people. They live in the Manor and call it their Eden, while Erik looks at the grounds wistfully. He's only ever a visitor.

Charles is rarely around, these days. He lives in Oxford, Mystique says, although she won't tell him what he does there. "A man deserves his secrets," she says. "He also deserves a life free of stalkers."

Erik frowns, but holds his tongue: if it had been another man asking, someone other than him, he would want her to keep quiet.

Yet he misses him, his bright-eyed companion, and every time that he visits he hopes Charles might happen to be there too.

Tonight, Mystique says, it's going to happen.

*

"Why don't you stay the night?" she offers when he's finished fucking her. "We're not supposed to let you stay here in the East Wing, but I think I could make an exception. Charles makes breakfast in the morning, when he's not jet-lagged."

"He can cook?"

"Sometimes. Usually, he makes a mess of it and Darwin has to come to his rescue." She grins. "We miss him. All of us."

He forgets, sometimes, that he is nothing more than a guest in their lives. When his heart sinks at failing to capture Charles, he forgets that he isn't the one missing Charles every single day, that he isn't the one rumbling around a giant brothel without Charles at his side.

"C'mon. Stay." She nudges him with her elbow. "You know you want to."

"I have precisely no idea what you mean," he insists. "I have important business to attend to tomorrow."

"Blow it off." She laughs and rolls onto her front, her long, lean body pressed against him. "And maybe, if you're very lucky, Charles will blow _you_ off."

Erik looks at her, unimpressed, and refuses to join her snickering laugh. "He doesn't do that kind of thing any more," he says.

She shrugs, a languid and fluid movement. "Name your price. Maybe he'll change his mind."

Erik doesn't mention that he'd prefer a free chess match with Charles to a bought fuck. He has the unsettling feeling that Mystique already knows.

*

There's smoke in the air when he comes down for breakfast, already dressed while the consorts are mostly still in their pyjamas. Before the hob, Charles is wielding a spatula. He has pin-striped pyjama bottoms hanging loosely from his hips, and an open dressing gown flaps around his sides. Erik tries very hard not to stare at his bare chest. He fails rather dramatically.

"Oh, bugger," Charles mutters to himself, running to the toaster to try to combat the smoke that is beginning to billow from it. "Darwin! A hand, please?"

Before Darwin can rise to the occasion, Erik turns his hand and pops the toast for him. It's coal-black and inedible, but at the very least it is no longer a fire hazard. Charles peers over his shoulder, and then turns completely.

A surprised smile melts onto his face. Erik struggles to remain standing. Kissing Charles's bare feet would hardly be dignified, and there are a crew of hungry consorts waiting to be fed.

"Erik," Charles says. "I had no idea you were here."

"Mystique allowed me to stay," Erik explains. He doesn't offer to go. He's been invited; he'll stand his ground for as long as he dares to. "Do you need a hand?"

Looking towards his manic breakfast, Charles nods. "You might just be my hero," he admits.

"I do what I can," Erik says, nudging into place beside Charles.

The consorts argue over who gets the best plates of breakfast; they sound like squabbling children instead of groomed courtesans. It makes Erik feel as if he's stumbled into a real family. This isn't the illusion that Xavier's Manor presents to the world. This is reality, and he's stumbled backstage.

Charles looks exhausted, but he has a gentle smile and bright eyes. "I'm sorry about all this," he says. "It's probably not what you were expecting."

"I didn't expect to be seduced over the kitchen table," Erik assures him. Done with cooking, he takes a seat at Charles's side. He isn't particularly hungry, but he likes watching Charles eat. There's something elegant about even that.

Across the table, he's aware of Mystique and Angel watching him. He's doubly aware of the smirks on their faces.

He tries to remind himself that, outside of this mansion, his is a name to be feared. He is known as one of the most powerful mutants in existence – as the head of the Brotherhood, he is the closest thing the world has to a ruler. Yet here it doesn't seem to mean a thing. He's just another client. Just another desperate man with a fist full of cash.

"How long are you in town for?" he asks. If Charles will be here for a while, he might be able to shuffle his schedule around in order to stay close by for an extra day or so.

Charles shakes his head. "It's something of a flying visit, I'm afraid." He frowns. "I don't have the kind of time that I used to."

Erik desperately wants to ask what it is that keeps Charles so busy now. He never used to be so distant. Even when he's here Erik hardly gets the chance to glimpse him. There's a selfish part of him that wants to stamp his feet and say it isn't fair: that part of him is the small boy that was crushed under Shaw's attention. He doesn't get what he wants.

"The house doesn't feel the same without you," he says - and the words come without his permission, surprising him.

Charles's eyebrows lift in surprise, but it's followed by a delighted smile. "I miss this place too. Sometimes I think my life would be a lot simpler if I just moved home."

Erik holds his cutlery in a far firmer grip than is necessary. "Why don't you do it?"

"Well, I tend to think of things like that when I'm stuck with my thesis. The rest of the time, I remember that I love Oxford."

Charles doesn't say, _I remember why I left_ , but Erik thinks he can hear it anyway. He doesn't know the full story. It's none of his business, really, but his curiosity says otherwise.

He clings to the other part of Charles's comment, a snippet of information about what it is that keeps Charles from him. "Your thesis?"

Charles nods. "The next time you see me, I may have a few extra letters after my name - if I'm lucky, anyway. It feels as if I'm drowning in the work these days."

It's easy to imagine Charles as an academic, hidden behind piles of books. His mind has always been the most fascinating thing about him, even more than his body. "What is your research about?"

"Genetic mutations - what else?" Charles grins, and Erik finds himself joining him. "But, please, tell me what you've been up to; what about the Brotherhood? If I start going on about my work I'll never stop."

"Seriously," Mystique adds from across the table, wielding her fork like a weapon. Erik had utterly forgotten that she was there. "He drones on and on and on..."

"You, Raven, are a terribly wicked person," Charles tells her. She flicks a crust of toast at him for using her human name.

After that, things quickly devolve into chaos.

*

Erik stays for an extra night, although Charles is an absent presence. Charles spends the bulk of the day with Moira, the house's manager, buried in the accounts and discussing matters of screening and security. For his part, Erik spends the day in the grounds, with the sun on his face and Mystique by his side.

"I'm not into playing matchmaker," she says, their footsteps matching one another. "I'm just sick of seeing you mooning over him."

"I can't believe I pay good money to be spoken to like this," Erik says, although his voice thrums with amusement.

For all that she can be blunt and brash, Mystique is good at her job - she is efficient and insightful, and she always seems to know exactly what is needed. "You pay 'good money' to hang around waiting for Charles to notice you," she contradicts. "Be careful. I've seen people go bankrupt here."

"Shouldn't you be encouraging me to spend more, not less?"

"I let Moira worry about the finances. My job is looking after my clients."

She reaches out and hangs onto his arm, offering a smile that seems shark-like in spirit. The sight of it alone is a threat, but Erik tries to remain unaffected; he tries to pretend that it is normal to harbour a schoolgirl crush when one is over thirty, alone and desperate. Obsessed.

*

"You and I need to schedule a rematch next time I'm back," Charles says as he's getting ready to leave. "As I recall, I lost dramatically last time."

Erik grins. That chess match had been one of the most intense experiences of his life and that is even counting his time on the battlefield. Nothing else compared to watching Charles concentrate across the board from him, or to nudging his leg to purposefully distract him.

"You play by the rules. I play dirty. I'll always win."

Charles responds with a chuckle that sounds dirty all by itself. "Next time I'll beat you," he promises.

Erik can hardly wait.

*

That night, he allows Hank to take him upstairs and blow him slow and long and hard. Even with blue fur in his hands he can't help but imagine what it might be like with Charles on his knees; he wants to find his past clients and quiz them, crush them, until he knows every detail about Charles's cherry-red lips.

He comes down Hank's throat and thanks him with a generous tip.

When Azazel retrieves him in the morning, he observes that Erik is leaving the mansion in a far worse mood than when he arrived there. Erik refuses to answer.

He can vaguely remember days when the mistakes of others didn't leave him wanting to crush their windpipes; he is sure that he once knew how to forgive.

*

The sudden lack of patience has gone on for several weeks now. None of his staff have yet dared to point out that his long tantrum has coincided with having to say goodbye to Charles again, but Erik has sullenly made the connection himself. He had assumed that seeing Charles again might be enough to brighten his spirits - it had failed to occur to him that seeing Charles also meant not-seeing him shortly afterwards.

Three weeks pass before he calls the brothel again. Moira answers, and he pretends he isn't disappointed. It would have been ridiculous to expect Charles to be there - but there had been a slim, silent part of him that had hoped for it anyway.

"It's Erik," he says. She recognises his voice instantly, and greets him as if he's an old friend. "I'd like to make an appointment for Thursday evening, nine o'clock. Mystique will do, or anyone else who is available."

"Mystique is booked in for a training seminar," Moira says. "What about Angel? I don't think you've met her before - she has wings."

Wings. That's interesting.

"She'll do," Erik says. He clears his throat. "Do you know if Charles will happen to be around?" It doesn't manage to sound nearly as casual as he had meant it to. It's bad enough that Mystique seems to have worked out his ridiculous reasons for hanging around so often. He doesn't want anyone else to pick up on it.

"He's in town, but he's busy teaching. If you have any issues to discuss, I'm sure I could help."

Erik frowns. "What is he teaching?" He wonders if it would appear too desperate if he enrolled in a genetics course just for a chance to see him again. He's never studied science in his life. It can't be too difficult to pick up, surely.

"It's a course on corporal punishment, specifically caning. We like to offer opportunities to expand our consorts' skill sets."

Erik would respond, but his mind has short-circuited. Charles. Caning.

_Oh._

He thinks it's possible that a thousand new fantasies have sprung to life.

"Ahhhf," he says, before he reminds himself that he is the saviour of mutant-kind and the poster-child for power. He really should be able to think and speak clearly at all times. He clears his throat. "Are there any free spaces on the course? It sounds... enlightening."

"I'm afraid it's for our employees only," Moira apologises. "I'll get in touch with Charles and see if he can make an exception for you, but he's usually quite strict about these things."

It's difficult to imagine Charles being strict at all. Every time that they have met he has been quiet and mild-mannered; it's easy to make him smile and he engages with everyone in his surroundings. Erik has never paused to wonder how he manages to run a brothel of unruly consorts with such a gentle demeanour; he's wondering about it _now_. Most of his solutions seem to involve canes and bare bottoms. Hardly appropriate.

"Ask him. You have my number."

"Of course, Erik. I'll be in touch."

He hangs up with little further small talk, his blood buzzing at the thought of what Thursday might bring.

*

But Charles doesn't make an exception.

Moira doesn't call him back. If it had been Moira, he might have been able to throw a temper tantrum and get her to ask again. Instead he is struck with _Charles_ on the phone, and that is almost enough to make him drop the damn thing to the floor in surprise.

"I am terribly sorry - Moira said you were quite enthusiastic. If you're interested, I could recommend some teachers for amateurs. There's a fantastic woman in New York City; she's -"

"That won't be necessary." Erik can hear his heart thumping so loudly that he's convinced Charles will be able to pick up on it too. He looks around his mundane office and tries to find something to focus on. It makes him wish that he had chosen to decorate some more.

"If I ever hold open classes I'll let you know. To be honest, I hardly even know how to teach them, but we had an incident a few days ago and Moira asked if I would throw something together to make sure it doesn't happen again, so..."

"Perfectly understandable. What happened?"

"One of the guys was a little too enthusiastic about his work. From what I hear, the client needed stitches afterwards. He might sue." Charles sighs. "Don't ever think of running a brothel, Erik. There's far more paper-work than they let you know."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"I probably shouldn't even be talking to you about this. If Moira asks, tell her you tortured it out of me."

"Will do." Erik holds the phone obscenely close to his ear, as if that might cause real physical contact. He still manages to smile. "I take it this will mean you'll be around on Thursday?"

"Briefly. I'm defending my thesis on Monday so I should be preparing for that."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Bribe the examiners for me?" Charles suggests. Erik tries to work out the practicalities of pushing through a bribe or threatening the examiners in time; it ought to be easy enough. "I ought to clarify that I didn't mean that as a serious suggestion."

"I knew that."

"Of course." Charles sounds worryingly amused. Erik would be irritated with that tone of voice, if it didn't seem to have a touch of affection in it. "I ought to get going. Perhaps I'll see you on Thursday."

"Perhaps," Erik murmurs vaguely, while he has every intention of making sure it happens.

*

He can hardly focus at work for the rest of the week, although perhaps his employees prefer that to the work-obsessed alternative, in which he growls at them all and declares that they are going to doom mutant-kind with their incompetence. At least when he spends his days pacing back and forth in his office he is not on the war path.

By the time Thursday comes, he has butterflies in his stomach. It's horrifying.

"Will you require a lift to Westchester today, sir?" Azazel asks, popping into his office at the end of the day.

Erik rapidly tears his blank gaze away from the window, and attempts to look as if he is in the middle of important work. "Who told you I was going to Westchester?"

Azazel grins, like a dog about to attack. Erik wonders if anyone has ever told him how alarming his smile is. "Just a good guess."

Erik frowns at him, unsettled; he doesn't like to be so easy to read. Life is far easier when no one knows what you might do next. "Yes, I'll need you to take me there. Nine o'clock."

Azazel promises to come back for him when the time comes, and disappears in a blur of red. Erik is left alone, with nothing to do but wait.

*

Angel meets him in the hallway when he arrives, her gossamer wings flitting behind her. "You're Erik," she says, placing her hand on his arm as if she already knows him. He can remember Charles doing something similar when they first met; it had felt more natural from him. "I've heard a lot about you."

"I hope all of it was filthy," he says, hardly paying attention to her or his own words. His eyes scan the hall for any sign of Charles, without really hoping to find him.

None of the scattered consorts are anyone that he recognises - and for someone who has patronised this place for five years, he thinks that must be significant. They must all be elsewhere in the house, sitting at Charles's feet and absorbing every scrap of knowledge he cares to bestow. Allowing Angel to lead him through the doorway towards the bar, Erik stamps down the fledgling surge of jealousy in his chest.

The Xavier Manor has an obscene number of rooms and functions. In addition to the bedrooms upstairs, there is a bar and ballroom, basketball and tennis courts outside, and a swimming pool to make an Olympian proud - although Erik has always wondered who visits a consort in order to play basketball with them. Several spa treatments are on offer as well, although Erik will forever regret the day that Mystique persuaded him to indulge in a mud wrap.

One could spend several days lost in luxury here. A person could drown in it.

Yet tonight he can hardly pay attention.

"Shall we go upstairs?" he offers once he's drained his whiskey. Angel has the most unangelic smirk he has ever seen, and in most other situations he would be delighted to have her all to himself.

Upstairs, he takes her from behind on deep red sheets. She moans like a porn star for him, loud and vulgar, and he fucks her harder than he would usually allow himself. At this rate he'll leave bruises.

For once, with his mind in another room with another man and a long slender cane, he doesn't care.

*

He tips her heavily for her troubles, as if that will help him atone. She goes to get him another drink from the bar, while he dresses and leaves the room without letting her know. He reminds himself that he is a paying customer; there is no reason to feel guilty for his behaviour. That doesn't stop him from feeling like a cad, running off in the middle of the night.

He aims loosely towards the library, not sure where else he might stand a chance of running into Charles accidentally. The chess table is in there, along with a comprehensive collection of books.

The door creaks loudly as he pushes inside; the large room is lit only by a single lamp.

Curled up in the armchair beside the table lamp, Charles has a book spread open in his lap. It's nothing compared to the piles of papers and files that carpet the ground around the chair, spread out in a semi-circle like a castle's defences. Erik leans against the doorway and smiles at the sight of him, an innocent professor. It feels strange to think of Charles as an academic, after always associating him with the physical sins of this house.

Charles looks up, rubbing one of his eyes with the back of his hand. When he sees Erik his spine goes straight and he smiles. He takes the book from his lap and places it on the table beside him. "Erik," he says fondly. "I'm sorry - I didn't know you were still here."

"You look exhausted," Erik observes. He walks further into the library, tucking his hands into his pockets as he goes. Even dimly lit, he can see the ghostly pallor of Charles's face and the dark smudges beneath his eyes. He looks as if he hasn't slept in days. It irritates Erik that he finds him attractive, even like this. "You should get some rest."

"I'll sleep once my viva is done," Charles answers.

"You'll be a shuffling zombie by Monday morning. Do they award extra points for that?"

Charles stretches awkwardly in his chair. "I believe so. Points for effort, something like that."

"I think the potential points for coherency are of more worth." Erik pauses when he's close enough that he's going to have to start skipping over papers if he wants to move forward any more. "Go to bed, Charles."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were propositioning me," Charles suggests, with a smile that manages to be utterly exhausted and ridiculously flirtatious at the same time. Erik's eyes narrow in confusion, but Charles moves on smoothly without noticing. "I suppose you're right. I should get some sleep."

He's regretting it already. If Charles is going to get some sleep, it means that they can't lurk in the warm darkness of the library together: no chess games, no debates, no more of those warm smiles. Erik feels as if he's shot himself in the foot.

Charles gets to his feet and stretches his arms above his head. Across his palms, Erik catches sight of deep, dark bruises. "What happened to your hand?" he demands - and he sounds as if he is already planning to hunt down and shoot whoever did it.

Judging from the way that Charles lowers his hand and chuckles in amusement, a man hunt may be something of an overreaction. "Allowing Alex to practice his new-found caning skills on my palm wasn't the smartest decision I've ever made," he admits sheepishly.

"It looks painful," Erik says. If he focuses on the physical realities, it might be easier not to think about the situation itself. He needs a distraction, so he stares at the dimly lit bruises instead.

"It's not too bad, though I appreciate the concern." Charles steps over the paper barrier hemming him into the chair, and lands up standing beside Erik. "Is there anything I can do to help while you're here? Sorry, I'm a terrible host these days."

_These days._

Erik still wishes that he could take a trip back to when Charles had worked here actively instead of only passing through. He wants to see him as a good host, wants to have him waiting in his room instead of Angel. Erik is one of the closest things that the mutant world has to a leader or a saviour; there is a part of him that thinks he should get what he wants, always. He's earned it.

A larger part of him is smarter than that, better than that.

"I don't need anything," he tells Charles. He shoves his shoulder with an open palm, pushing him towards the door. "Go and sleep."

There's something about the way that Charles smiles and heads towards the door on his demand. "Good night, Erik," Charles says.

Watching him go, Erik thinks he must hate this man. It's the only explanation for the way this _hurts_. He really is sick of love-sickness.

*

Erik's shoulders are aching by the time he makes it home from work on Monday evening. Long days in the office make him miss wartime. Before the Brotherhood had been in power, his days had been filled with plotting and fighting. Now, he wrestles paperwork and debates legislation with idiot politicians. It isn't the utopia he'd been expecting.

He slips off his shoes once he is inside his apartment and pads on socked feet through to his living room. He sinks into the couch and for a moment is motionless, doing nothing more than listening to the sounds of the silent apartment around him. Nothing moves. He can feel the hum of metal at the edges of his awareness, a constant presence that never leaves him. Other than that, however, he is alone.

He checks the time, and mentally calculates what the time must be in England. Charles's viva examination will be long-passed by now.

He has his number.

When Charles had called him to let him know he wouldn't be allowed a spot on his caning course, the phone number hadn't been Xavier's Manor official contact number. It must have been his personal phone.

Erik's jaw clenches, and he tries to debate whether or not it would be creepy to phone him to congratulate him.

After sending Charles to bed late on Thursday night, he had managed to run into him one last time on Friday morning. Charles had been waiting for a taxi to arrive to take him to the airport, and there had been something real about the way he had smiled when Erik approached to ask him how he was feeling.

'Something real'.

That's probably how all clients feel about their relationships with whores. Everyone thinks their experience is the exception. Everyone believes that they are special. That's exactly what Charles and his consorts sell: charming, comforting lies.

Erik pinches the bridge of his nose, and then squints at the phone again.

One small phone call. That's all. He wants to congratulate Charles; he wants to tell him that he is ridiculously smart and that it's no surprise that he's made it this far. It isn't selfish to call a person to compliment them. It's a nice thing to do, even.

His body twitches forward before he changes his mind about standing up. He flicks his fingers instead, causing the phone to shoot into his hand. It slams a little bit too hard against his palm in his haste, reminding him of the harsh bruises that had banded Charles's hand after his lesson. He makes a mental note to ask him about that and check that he is okay.

 _You are not a teenage boy_ , Erik reminds himself stubbornly. Having spent most of his teenage years in Shaw's army, he isn't entirely sure what teenage romance consists of: yet his limited exposure to pop culture and movies is enough to let him know that it usually involves nerves and butterflies in the stomach. He refuses to succumb to such nonsense, he tells himself as he finds the right number in his cell phone.

It seems to ring for eternity.

It's tormenting him on purpose, this damn phone, he knows it is, until -

"HELLO!" shouts someone that absolutely is not Charles. Erik holds his phone an inch away from his ear. "THIS IS THE PHONE OF PROFESSOR X-X-X."

"My god, give it here," he hears Charles in the background. "I said give it to me."

"The Love Doctor is busy right now, can I take a message?"

"Give me the phone, Johnny," Charles says. For all the stubborn arrogance that Erik can hear radiating across the ocean, Charles apparently manages to retrieve his property. In the background, thumping, idiotic music tries to drown all other sounds out. "Hello? I'm sorry about that. Who is this?"

"Is this a bad time?" Erik asks, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. The nerves are fading in the face of insanity.

"Sorry? I can't hear you. Wait a minute, I'll go outside." Charles is practically shouting, although his voice seems unable to attain the same booming quality as his friend had. Erik holds on and listens as Charles politely shoves his way past a crowd, spilling a list of apologies and muttered requests to be let past as he goes.

The background noise fades abruptly and Erik leans his head against his hand. He's glad that he's alone in his apartment; it would be terrible for anyone else to see the smile that is currently on his face. It would be enough to ruin his fearsome reputation forever.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Charles asks.

"Yes, I'm here. It's Erik Lehnsherr."

"Erik?" Charles sounds over-loud and rather surprised. "You have my number!"

"You called me last week. I hope you don't mind."

"It's _awesome_."

Charles Xavier just used the word 'awesome'.

"No! It's _groovy_!"

Erik wonders how long he's been drinking. "I take it congratulations are in order. How did it go?"

"Brilliantly. I have a PhD." Charles gives a startled burst of laughter, as if he has just told the world's funniest joke. "But then we had to go out to celebrate so we're in London now. It's all a bit loud. Whatever happened to a drink at the pub?"

"Welcome to modern society," Erik answers. "Next time we meet I'll take you for a drink to celebrate."

"A quiet drink," Charles clarifies. "And don't try to make me dance. I fell over."

"You have my word," Erik promises.

"I'd better go," Charles says. "Otherwise Johnny will come to kidnap me. Things might get quite violent."

"We wouldn't want that. Congratulations, Charles. You've earned this."

Once they've said goodbye and Charles has left him with only the dial tone, Erik clutches his phone and thinks about the celebratory drink in their future. He thinks he may have just asked Charles out; even if it is slightly unlikely that Charles will remember as much in the morning, an important fact remains.

Charles didn't laugh in his face at the very idea.

That's certainly something.

*

"You seem to be in a much happier mood today, sir," Azazel says, after Erik manages to take the mistakes of an underling in his stride. He doesn't even threaten to have the idiot fired.

"I'm in the same mood as I always am," Erik insists, even if that isn't strictly speaking true. There may in fact be a certain bounce in his step. "If it would help, I can start shouting at everyone."

"That won't be necessary."

"Then we shouldn't comment on my mood ever again."

It is the smartest rule he's ever instituted in the office.

*

"Do you think I ought to phone him again?" he asks his empty apartment that evening. He doesn't want to appear desperate, and he acknowledges that Charles has probably been nursing a hangover for the bulk of the day. Besides which, there is the fact that a vague promise to take someone out for a quiet drink _sometime_ is hardly a marriage proposal.

He calls for Chinese food instead.

It isn't nearly as satisfying as a 30-second phone call with Charles had been.

*

His mood descends again when Charles hasn't tried to phone him within a couple of days. It's irrational and it's stupid and he hates himself for it and he hates Charles for making him behave like an idiot.

Azazel does nothing more than sigh after Erik pushes a laptop off of Riptide's desk in frustration.

"Another one. Where in the budget are we supposed to find the money to pay for that?" Azazel asks.

Erik growls at him. It isn't dignified.

It's all Charles's fault, of course.

*

He tries calling Charles later that week. There's no answer.

He throws the phone across the room so hard that it smashes against the wall and breaks.

In fact, it smashes into sixty-five different pieces. Ordinarily, that wouldn't be a problem. It's easy to replace - and it's a relief to escape from its constant ringing in any case. Maybe he should have smashed it months ago. It's a far cheaper method of stress-relief than a visit to Xavier's Manor.

The next day at work, he dumps all of the pieces on the government's technopath's desk. She looks up at him from behind her glasses and blinks as if he has personally offended her. "What did you do to it?" she asks.

 _Do you know who I am?_ he wants to ask in return - because no one in their right mind should talk to him like that.

"I need a number," Erik says. "It was on that phone."

"It's gone," she states blankly. "Did you do some screwy metal-melting this to it? You killed the poor thing."

'The poor thing'. God, he had forgotten how irritating technopaths could be. They treat technology like it's a living, breathing friend of theirs. "I'm led to believe that you are the best at what you can do. If you cannot retrieve a number from a broken phone _what use are you_?"

"It isn't just broken - it's been massacred. I've never seen damage like this."

Erik wants to vow that she will never see anything again ever, but it seems melodramatic. He settles for sneering at her in a way that he hopes promises endless, mind-breaking pain if he doesn't get what he wants. "You have until the end of the day," he tells her, before he stalks out of her office.

He comes back at the end of the day to find the pieces of his phone in a clear plastic bag on the woman's desk. There is a post-it note stuck to the front of it telling him that he's screwed.

Clearly, all technopaths are wicked, evil people who are not to be trusted.

*

He books another appointment, even though he usually lasts far longer between sessions. This time he appears on a Sunday and spends a whole day there, restlessly keeping an eye out for familiar faces while he's having his feet massaged in the spa.

"You are so obvious," Mystique tells him, lounging in a fluffy white robe next to him while her own feet are attended to. "Flattering though it would be, I know you're not here to see me. Charles isn't here."

"He's in Oxford - I know." He really shouldn't tell her anything; he needs to remind himself of what the boundaries are in this place. Mystique's job is to make him feel cared for, but she isn't truly on his side. Nonetheless, there is a reason that this house is so renowned - they are all extraordinarily good at what they do. His guard slips. "I had his phone number; I had it, and I lost it, because I... My phone had an altercation with a wall."

She hikes an eyebrow at him.

"I may have thrown it against said wall," he admits. "It deserved it."

"I'm sure it did." Mystique smirks. "If you're asking me to give you his number again, I'm going to have to remind you it's against policy. Can't you just find it yourself? You rule the world or something, don't you?"

"Not quite," Erik corrects. "I am the head of the Brotherhood, not the world."

"Same difference."

Even if he scolds her, Erik can't help but be pleased at the insinuation. It's been a long, hard slog to get mutants to where they ought to be; equal with humans, beyond them even. Mutant equality is good - mutant supremacy is the next logical step.

"It would be unethical to use my position to gain a man's phone number," he says. "Can't you just give it to me?"

Mystique rolls her eyes. "I'll tell him to call you. That's the most I'm offering."

It isn't nearly enough, but it will do for now. Later in the day, when they retreat upstairs to the red sin of the bedrooms, Erik feels more relaxed than he has in years. He tastes every inch of her blue skin and makes her giggle with feather-light brushes of his fingertips to the backs of her knees. It's beautiful, really; it's an appetiser.

*

Mystique doesn't get dressed when it's time to go; clothes are hardly a necessity for her, so she lounges on her back and watches him pull himself together, slipping into his black trousers and tightening his belt.

"Erik," she says, interrupting with a level of thoughtfulness in her voice that makes the muscles in his bare back tense. "Wait, I... You want to see Charles, right?"

His answer is a cautious nod. He can't fight the feeling that she's about to ask him to sell his soul.

She sits up, her movements as fluid as a snake. "He's holding a fund-raiser in New York City next week. It's a fancy event. We're all going. All of our main clients are on the guest-list."

"But not me," Erik concludes. He hasn't heard a damn thing about this. He would have been there in an eye-blink. "Why?"

"Charles doesn't think you would approve."

On the one hand, that is worrying. On the other hand, that means Charles _thinks_ about him. Erik is getting that irritating giddy schoolboy feeling again. "Why?" he asks.

Mystique, as it turns out, is spectacular at bringing him down to earth. "It's for the Human-Mutant Alliance"

Erik stares at her for a few long moments and desperately hopes that he misheard. The HMA. It's one of the most idiotic causes that he's ever heard of, and it's also one of the loudest. Secretive as hell, they still have an irritating habit of picketing him whenever he goes to give a speech, and there's always a few of them lobbying other politicians to try to oppose the Brotherhood's policies. They're a damn nuisance, that's what they are.

"You're telling me that Charles is a member of it?" he asks. "He was right. I don't approve at all. It's a dangerous, foolish cause."

In a way, it is almost satisfying. At least now he can convince himself that Charles does have at least one flaw. The only mutants stupid enough to join up to such a cause would have to be ones with embarrassingly weak powers - and Erik has never discovered what it is that Charles can do. It must be increasingly flaccid. Maybe he can produce orange juice from his fingertips or he can communicate with worms. Something ridiculous.

He's already feeling much more secure about the situation with Charles when Mystique decides to ruin things once again. "He's not a member, Erik. He runs the damn thing."

Charles runs the Human-Mutant Alliance.

Charles Xavier, the proprietor of his favourite brothel, the genius researcher into mutant genetics, and the man he's been obsessed with for years, _runs_ the prickliest thorn in his backside.

Above their heads, the light bulb smashes as the metal inside it begins to vibrate. Erik's face is static.

The universe hates him. He decides right then and there to hate it right back.

*

All logic says that he should hand Charles's name over to the Department of Security and allow them to handle things from here; he should also demand how they can have spent years looking into subversive organisations without ever working out the connection. What is he paying them for?

He holds onto the secret instead of revealing it; he holds onto it and rages at his employees, smashes another laptop, and demands that everyone in his sight is fired. Azazel refuses to listen to him. That's good - it allows him to have someone to properly shout at.

"Erik," Azazel sighs at him on Thursday, after spending most of the week putting up with his (incredibly adult, incredibly justifiable) tantrums and performing damage control. "Are you going to the fund-raiser tomorrow, or aren't you?"

His tail swishes behind him, the point of it seeming sharper or shinier than usual. Erik thinks he has been polishing it, which he has never seen him do before. His eyes narrow. "How do you know about that?" he asks.

If he has a HMA member in his staff, he will need to have that dealt with. It's bad enough to have one in his whorehouse.

 _His_ whorehouse. Good god, he really is losing his grip.

"I received an invitation," Azazel says. He smiles a moment later. It's the most disconcerting thing that Erik has ever seen. "Since you have spent the week destroying technology and refusing to shave, I assumed you too had found out."

Erik runs his fingers over the fuzz on his chin. After he'd ended up slicing through his shower curtain in anger when he first tried to shave after the revelation, he had decided that it was time to take a break from shaving. "I think it makes me look dignified," he says, but he knows that he sounds like a sullen child.

"Are you coming?" Azazel repeats without acknowledging him. "You ran away from the Manor after Mystique told you."

"How do you know that?"

Azazel shoots him a dismissive look. Erik thinks that he ought to make it illegal for anyone to _dismiss_ him in that way.

"And I didn't run away. I retreated; I could have hurt a lot of people if I'd stayed there. A lot of mutants."

He doesn't mention that he had wanted to. After what he had found out, he had wanted to rip the entire place apart and step away from the rubble. He would have been justified - all this time, all these years, Charles has been lying to him, tricking him, laughing at him. It's all been a damn game, a foolish illusion. Charles has kept him under his thumb. Probably made him fall in love with him on purpose. He's a whore, isn't he? That's what they do.

"The door knob is shaking, sir," Azazel informs him.

Erik breathes out through his nose and gains control of himself. "Needless to say, I will not be taking up Mystique's invitation."

"Then you should inform security. We can arrest them."

"It's not illegal to throw a party," Erik says, shifting uncomfortably. He knows that they could easily find a reason to incarcerate them, Charles in particular - Erik turns a blind eye to their methods, but he knows that similar problematic individuals have been dealt with in that way in the past. "Leave them to it. Let them laugh at me all they want. I don't care."

Azazel gives him the kind of glare that owners give bad puppies. Erik scowls back. "You are an idiot, Erik," Azazel says. It's a surprise to hear his own name from Azazel's lips. "I will take you to the fund-raiser tomorrow at ten. Wear something suitable, and try not to kill anyone."

He's gone in a blur of red before Erik can even try to threaten his life and livelihood.

*

What the hell does 'suitable' mean anyway?

And how is he supposed to avoid killing anyone if he's dumped in a room filled with people who hate him?

*

He does go ahead and shave, however. Charles is going to be at this damned thing; he wants to look his best. If he's going to crush him beneath his fist (and he is, he _is_ ) then he doesn't want to look like a ragged mess while he does so.

Leather jacket, black turtleneck. It isn't black tie, but it will do.

He makes sure to wear a metal watch, and hangs a metal chain around his neck beneath the high collar of his sweater. Armed like this, he is far more dangerous than any man with a gun. He could have these traitors dead on the ground before they even knew he was there.

The evening comes and he loiters in his apartment, staring out of the windows that stretch from floor to ceiling. Before him, the Friday nightlife is just beginning to ignite. He would much rather stay in and brood. He thinks that there are still a few items in his apartment that haven't been smashed in a rage. It's best to be thorough; he ought to finish them off too.

Azazel teleports in and out, grabbing hold of him in a split-second. The world blurs and rushes around Erik in a head-pounding pulse of red; when his feet hit the ground, they are no longer in his apartment.

There are bouncers on the door of the building, dressed in suits that seem to do nothing but emphasise their bulk. Azazel and Erik skip past them with ease; Azazel takes them straight to the cloakroom. The racks are lined with expensive furs. There is a fortune hanging here, unguarded.

"Go on ahead," Erik says. "I'll follow you in a minute."

"Don't hide in here all night," Azazel warns him, but he does as he's told. For all that he has developed the bad habit of talking back, he still knows how to follow orders. He's a valuable man because of that.

He leaves Erik alone in the room. He takes a deep breath of air that feels both clammy and hot around him. Through the doors, he can hear swing music playing - a live band, from the sound of things. There is also the constant murmur of chatter like the buzzing of a hive, dangerous and threatening to people like him. He is the enemy, here. Azazel has taken him right to the heart of the nest. He isn't scared; he isn't worried. He has shown time and again how capable he is of defending himself and mutant-kind. With nothing to fear, he can't account for the slow throb of dread that is currently knotted in the pit of his stomach.

He breathes out and pats his clothes down, making himself as neat as possible. Having caught sight of Azazel's charcoal grey suit on the way out, he's already beginning to feel under-dressed.

That feeling only grows once he edges his way out of the cloakroom.

The dance hall is enormous and lavish, sparkling with a huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling. As a boy, Erik could never even have dreamed of such extravagance. To him, it hadn't existed. In the peacetime years since he came to power, he has brushed against it more often than he is comfortable with - yet it always surprises him, every single time, the wealth that can exist while boys like him have to listen to the growling of their own stomachs.

He sticks to the side of the room, but his eyes scan the entire place. The lighting is lowered so that it feels dim and private, but it's an illusion. Erik can see well enough to estimate numbers (far more than he would have guessed) but better than that he is able to pick out faces. He can even put names to some of them.

There are clumps of people standing together in deep conversation at the outskirts of the dance floor. On a raised stage at the front of the room there is a swing band, with brass instruments and a crooning singer. Couples are dancing in swooping circles, but Erik pays more attention to those that he can see talking to each other.

He recognises the workers from the Manor, of course - they are spread out across the room in a strategic way that Erik imagines is far from coincidental. Party or not, they are clearly still at work. Mystique is the closest one to him, but he keeps himself in the shadows. While the others are dressed in long, flowing dresses, Mystique doesn't hide herself with a single stitch. Even in the darkness, most of those near her find it impossible to stop themselves from stealing glance after glance.

The consorts are the known qualities in the room, however. It is the other guests that he has to be cautious of.

He recognises a handful of congressmen and senators; no one from his own party, thankfully, but some from the opposition. While the opposition party is considerably milder than the HMA, it's hardly a surprise to see them at a gathering like this.

He recognises moguls and millionaires, who stare in delight at the cleavage on display. He recognises actors and actresses, musicians and comedians, and he wonders just how far this conspiracy goes. Both mutant and human alike mingle in the room.

Although he won't admit to himself, there's one person in particular that he's looking for. Of course there is.

He finds him standing in a small circle near the stage, deep in conversation. Erik stays back against the wall of the room, too far away to hear what he's saying, although he can see Charles's lips moving in animated conversation. Moira hangs at his side, her green dress sparkling all the way to the floor. Charles looks as if he started the night in a formal suit - by now, however, he has discarded his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. His bow tie hangs open around his collar.

Erik had expected to want to destroy him when he next saw him.

The sight of Charles now, however, leaves him with the impulse to bend him over and fuck him thoroughly.

Damn it.

He clenches his jaw in frustration and attempts to dampen the emotion. When he sees that Charles appears to be talking to Tony Stark, of all people, it's a fair distraction. He frowns at the sight. Figures like Stark and other so-called superheroes have been difficult to contend with in the context of the mutant-human divide; how should a human with artificial abilities be categorised and handled? What rights are they entitled to? Despite his fragile humanity, Erik has always supposed that beneath the suit Stark had been with the Brotherhood at heart; he has always seemed like a man who knew how to defend his best interests. He'll have to re-evaluate that opinion.

The band onstage finishes their latest song, causing a polite ripple of applause, but another one isn't started straight away. The singer grips hold of his microphone stand, grinning at the attention he's getting, and clears his throat. "Me and the band are gonna take a break and grab a drink. In the meantime, there's someone very special that I have the honour of bringing to the stage. He's the reason we're all here tonight; please, ladies and gentlemen, give a very warm welcome to our very own Charles Xavier!"

Erik politely joins in with the applause as Charles makes his way towards the stage; his head is bowed low in adorable embarrassment. Erik scowls. Scowling is a far better response than a lovesick sigh.

"Thank you," Charles says, reeling back from the microphone when it initially squeals at him. "Thank you for coming here tonight. I won't keep you long; I save my long, boring speeches for my students." He spares a sheepish smile at the titter of polite laughter. "By being here, by offering your support, you are changing lives. Every single dollar that we collect goes straight towards ensuring a brighter, equal future between humans and mutants. In today's political climate, with the Brotherhood growing stronger by the day, it's important for us to remember why we do what we do. I'd like to present a short film that tells the story of the good that the HMA has done in the past year far better than I could hope to."

He steps to the side as the lights in the room dim and a screen at the back of the stage flickers to life. Erik crosses his arms over his chest in disapproval and frowns as he watches it.

The film starts with a shot of smiling children against a soundtrack of twanging guitar music. Erik's heart sinks; this is going to be irritatingly sentimental.

It shows combined classes in private schools, where human and mutant children are taught together rather than separated as they are in state schools; it shows tired volunteers, Charles included, hunched over desks in frantic letter-writing drives to oppose the Parenting Reformation Bill that Erik himself had helped to steer through congress.

While a voice-over speaks about dreams of equality and understanding, clips are shown that supposedly demonstrate the horrors of the Brotherhood's rule: an interview with a mother whose mutant child was taken from her; a sound-clip from an old man who claim that he had been blocked out of his business because, as a human, he was deemed too irresponsible to handle it; a human with still-healing bruises who says she was attacked on the street by mutants.

It is ridiculous.

By the time the lights go up again, Erik can feel his temper like a physical being inside his chest, clawing like a caged animal. It's not true; the way that they've twisted his words, his policies, his dreams - it's horrific. They've made him sound like a monster, when all that he has ever tried to do is protect his people.

The HMA makes claims of segregation; they are blind to the necessity of separation to ensure that mutants can be free from danger.

They claim that the Brotherhood discriminates against humans; all that he does is respect and honour those that deserve it, mutants alone.

The HMA see what they want to see. He's always known this, always been convinced of it - it has frustrated him before, but it's never made his blood boil with fury. The room feels too hot. He wants to rip it to pieces and shatter everything around him from the second that he sees Charles applauding as the film ends.

Charles steps forward once the lights go up and finishes his speech. Erik feels a disturbance in the air beside him - when he looks to the side, Azazel has appeared, his tail swishing back and forth behind him. "I thought it would be best to check on you after... _that_."

"It's disgusting," Erik murmurs back to him. He can't hear a word that Charles is saying. Perhaps that is for the best. "How can they - How can he..." It's not right. This is Charles. He is supposed to be so much better than this; everything that Erik has thought for years tells him that Charles is perfect. He swallows hard.

"I should never have brought you here. Mystique thought it might help." Azazel looks towards her, but her attention is on the stage. "She was wrong."

"Help who?" Erik asks sharply. "Whose side are you on, precisely?"

Azazel meets his eyes and accusation without wavering. "We thought you might stand a greater chance of talking sense into him. He won't listen to Mystique - he sticks to his cause, always. You might succeed where we have failed."

The room explodes into applause as Charles finishes his speech. Erik glances towards the stage to see him handing the microphone back to the singer and scurrying down from the platform, looking flushed and triumphant. _Gorgeous_.

Before he can ask Azazel precisely what he means by all of this, they are assaulted by wide-smiling guests. "Oh my god!" says a woman with a heavy necklace of pearl snaking around her neck. Her companion scurries towards them in her wake. "You two are _adorable_."

Erik blinks at her. Adorable? He feels ill. "Excuse me?"

She taps her partner with her clutch. "You didn't tell me Charles had hired impressionists. Or are they shapeshifters? I can never tell these days." She looks back at them, glee in her eyes with her head tilted back to be able to see them properly from her short stature. "Lehnsherr and Azazel. That is so good. Say something, okay? Like - Oh, say 'Peace was never an option!' Or- ooh, no. Say 'Mutant and Proud'. Go on!"

Erik stares at her as if she is the most grotesque thing he has ever seen. "I am not a trained ape," he snarls. Azazel places a hand on his arm as if to hold him back, as if something so limited and physical could ever be enough to restrain him.

"That is _brilliant_!" the woman squeals, but her husband is squinting at him as if he sees something she doesn't. "What else do you do?"

"I could send the metal of those gauche rings on your fingers straight through your skull," Erik threatens. "Would that still amuse you?"

"You are so good at this." She nudges her husband with her bag again. "Tell him, sweetheart. Tell him he's good."

"What is your name?" the man asks. He clears his throat. "Where did Charles find someone like you?"

Erik is ready to tell him that Charles found him by tricking him into spending thousands of dollars at his damn Manor and by allowing his whores to suck his cock, but Azazel's hand clenches on his arm again. He yanks away from him, eyes blazing, ready to tell this stupid woman who it is that she's laughing at. He's going to hurt her, kill her, kill them all - but then there are firm, gentle hands, one on his elbow and one on his hip.

"Yes, he's fabulous, isn't he?" Charles says to the couple. Erik stares at him, but Charles doesn't glance his way despite their sudden proximity. "Both of them are. You wouldn't believe the amount of make-up it takes to make him look like Azazel."

The pearl-clad woman looks flattered to have Charles's attention, but her husband is still watching them suspiciously. All of Erik's attention, meanwhile, is focused only on the points of contact where Charles's hands rest on him. He can't think of anything else.

"They are _very_ good. It's all make-up?" the man asks.

Charles rubs at his temple as if a headache is forming. His smile doesn't slip from his face. "Hours of it. It's not perfect, but in this lighting it's close enough, wouldn't you say?"

No one is truly going to argue with Charles at his own event, Erik supposes. The man backs down, his bushy moustache twitching. He nods.

"I have to steal them away for the moment - I'll catch up with you both later in the night. If I recall correctly you owe me a dance, Elizabeth."

The couple wave at them and Charles begins to lead Erik away. His hand lingers on his elbow, gentle but unyielding. He makes no such physical contact with Azazel - Erik wonders if that is supposed to be significant.

They plunge out of the over-decorated hall into a side passageway, never speaking a word. It's only when the door closes behind them that Charles breaks the fierce silence, finally saying, "I suppose you and I ought to talk."

"I suppose so," Erik snaps like a threat.

Azazel, behind him, rolls his eyes and teleports away. It looks as if Erik is in this one alone.


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you have a death wish, Erik?" Charles asks him before Erik can summon up the words to speak. "What on earth would possess you to come here?"

Erik stares at him as if he is talking Martian. "Are you threatening me?"

"I knew Mystique would probably invite you, but I didn't for a second think you'd be stupid enough to actually follow through."

Charles thinks he's stupid. Erik stamps on the slash of hurt that flickers through him; he'd known that it had to be the case, that Charles wouldn't have paraded in front of him so openly if he truly respected him, but it's another thing entirely to hear it said so openly. "Why wouldn't I come? It looks as if it's the social event of the year."

"Half of the people out there think that you are the devil himself," Charles says, flinging an arm out to point towards the closed door. "It's too dangerous."

"You'd be happy to have my head on a stick," Erik accuses. "I saw your little film."

"And you clearly didn't pay attention to a single second of it. The most dangerous thing we've threatened you with is a paper-cut." Charles frowns at him. "We're not a violent organisation. All we want is peace."

Charles is so green, so innocent. Erik wonders if he would feel the same way if he hadn't been safely hidden in the Manor during the worst of the struggle for supremacy. Maybe if Charles had seen the blood that had been spilt during the rebellion he would understand; if he had seen the brutality for himself, he would _have_ to understand.

Yet Erik isn't here to have a political debate. Lord knows, that is what he does for a living these days. All his hours are spent bickering about minutiae of policy and butting heads with his underlings. He can handle that.

What Charles has done, is doing, is far worse than a mere political disagreement.

"Have you been laughing at me all this time?" he asks abruptly. "Stringing me along, pretending we could be _friends_... You must have thought me such a fool."

Charles's expression is soft with sympathy; Erik wants nothing more than to wipe away, to scratch and claw until Charles can't look at him like that, like he genuinely cares. "Never. I swear, Erik, I never meant for you to find out like this."

"Or at all, I imagine." He could have carried on for years, never having a single idea about how naive he was. Charles and his consorts could have continued to squeeze money out of him while he did nothing more than hang on uselessly as he waited for another glimpse of Charles. Pathetic, he realises now. "Did you really think you would get away with it for all these years?"

"I've only headed up the organisation for a year," Charles says with a sigh. "The last leader was arrested - we were left with the need for someone with wide social connections and experience in managing a legally dubious organisation. You have to admit I fit the bill. I didn't lie to you, Erik. I just didn't want you to hate me."

He says it so earnestly, his blue eyes wide, that Erik wants to believe him. He wants to think that Charles actually gives a damn about what he thinks or feels about him - but he refuses to be drawn in so easily this time. "I'm not going to fall for that. Your games aren't going to work."

Charles moves to lean against the wall of the hallway, not taking his eyes off of Erik. He looks as tired and vulnerable as he had done on the evening after his caning seminar. The desire to look after him still thrums through Erik - he hides away from it.

"You're a very distrustful person, you know," Charles informs him. He even has the damn arrogance to smile as he says it. "Not everyone is out to destroy you."

"Not everyone, true. You are the leader of my greatest opponents, however."

"That's a little over-dramatic," Charles chuckles. "We lobby for equal rights - we don't murder anyone."

"No, you're a lot more dangerous than that," Erik agrees coldly. "There's more than one way to destroy a man. I'd say you know a lot of them, in your line of work."

Charles's smile fades to a confused frown. "I'm not sure that I follow you. Because I'm a genetics professor? Or because I run the Manor?"

He's being dense on purpose. Charles isn't a stupid man. He's a lot of other things, but he isn't _stupid_. "You make people fall in love with you. It's all a trick."

"It's a business transaction. It's never said to be anything that it's not." Charles's eyes are searching his face, looking for something that he doesn't seem able to find. Erik keeps his expression as blank and unrevealing as he can. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"You didn't," he insists immediately. "I'm not hurt. Merely irritated."

"Then I apologise for irritating you," Charles amends, with a flicker of a smile. Erik thinks he might be teasing him. "It wasn't my intention."

"You needn't be so polite to me. We're enemies now."

Charles pauses thoughtfully. "We needn't be. I have no grudge towards you specifically, Erik."

Erik rolls his eyes, and wishes that Charles would stop talking - yet he can't seem to summon up the willpower to leave. He has spent so many months of his life longing for the next glimpse of Charles that he could get. Now he has his undivided attention. There's nothing he wants to do more than retreat.

"I think you're misguided, that's all," Charles clarifies. "You're scared - all of the Brotherhood are. Fear can do terrible things to a person."

"I'm no coward. I fought for our rights; I killed Sebastian Shaw myself while you and yours were hiding in your Manor. You don't know what fear is."

"I didn't mean it as an insult," Charles says, with a soothing lilt in his voice. Erik tries not to listen; he wants to be angry with him. He needs that fire. "Please, Erik. Not everything has to be a battle."

He steps forward, away from the wall, and Erik's entire body tenses in response. He becomes acutely aware of every scrap of metal nearby - just in case, just a precaution, and it's one he would never have thought he would need against Charles.

Yet all Charles does with his new proximity is place a single hand on Erik's shoulder. "There is another way. You are so scared of humanity and what it might do - so angry at them for what only a few have done. It blinds you and the Brotherhood to the potential for peace and equality."

Erik's mouth is dry. He can hardly pay attention to what Charles is saying because Charles is _touching_ him - and he hates him now, he truly does. He hates him and Charles is touching him and there's nothing else he can think about but that warm, gentle hand on his shoulder. This close to him, with Charles's bow tie hanging open and the top button of his shirt undone, it's impossible to think of anything but how badly he wants to kiss him.

It's nothing more than a hand on his shoulder, but it's proof that Charles can be far more manipulative than he appears.

"Let's go somewhere," Erik says abruptly. "Come home with me."

He doesn't know what he's doing, not any more. He doesn't have a single plan.

 _He won't fuck for money any more_ , he reminds himself, but he watches Charles anyway with fiercely hopeful eyes.

Charles's gaze dips down. "It would be rude to leave my own party," he says. Erik's jaw clenches, even if he is trying not to let his disappointment show on his face. "Are you free tomorrow?"

Erik blinks in surprise. "Not really," he answers. "I _do_ have a world to run."

Charles nudges his shoulder again and then allows his hand to drop. It's very difficult to restrain himself from taking Charles by the wrist and placing his hand back there. "You must have a lunch hour at the very least."

"No," Erik replies. "I eat at my desk."

Charles is smiling by now, close-lipped with amusement glinting in his eyes. "Then would I be allowed to join you at your desk tomorrow? Let's say midday."

"I..." He is perilously close to inviting the leader of the HMA into the very heart of his government. What on earth is he thinking? "I'll instruct the guards to let you through."

"Splendid." Now Charles's smile widens. It's dangerously disarming. "See? There's nothing to worry about. You don't have to hate me after all."

He claps a hand against Erik's upper arm - as if contact means nothing. He can hand it out so casually. Charles is loose and comfortable around him in a way that Erik isn't used to, not unless he's spending paid time with one of Charles's consorts. Erik is a terrifying man; why does Charles refuse to be terrified of him?

"I ought to get back before they send a search party for me," he says. "I slipped away early last time we did this. Moira has threatened to take my head off if I try to do it again."

"Enjoy yourself," Erik rasps. He clears his throat again. "I'll probably head off home."

Charles nods, but he stays on the spot for a moment longer than he has to. He looks up at Erik and for a moment his tongue flashes over his lips, pink and perfect. At their current proximity, they would only have to take a half-step forward to be put back into contact with each other. Charles could tilt his head back or Erik could lean down and then they could kiss. Erik could finally feel what it's like.

And Charles is standing there.

_Waiting._

Erik stares at his lips as every instinct in his body tells him to lean down and take them; he lets his anger go, slipping away unseen, until it feels as if none of this has happened. It's the same instant attraction that he had felt when they first met, the same need that makes it impossible to take his eyes off of Charles. He hates how powerless it makes him.

Abruptly, Charles looks down and takes a small step back. He half-chuckles and he passes his hand over the front of his mouth, quiet for a moment as he seems lost in his thoughts. When he looks up at Erik again, Erik is sure that it's affection he sees in his eyes. God, he desperately wants to believe that that is what it is.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Charles says. "Try not to walk into any more snake-pits until then. I might not be around to pull you out this time."

Erik tries his hardest to scowl, but he is finding it incredibly difficult. "I hope you have fun dancing with Elizabeth," he says in return.

If they were many years younger than they currently are, he thinks that Charles might stick his tongue out at him.

Instead, he gives an awkward wave and walks back to his party. When he opens the door, a surge of noise and music hits into them. The door swings shut, but before he fades from view entirely Erik sees Moira swoop in to join his side without wasting a single second. Charles is always going to be in demand, he supposes.

Upon confronting Charles, he had expected to end up with a hoarse voice and bruised knuckles. He had imagined making him bleed and making him pay (and, other times, making him see the light).

He had never imagined this helpless glow in his chest or the way that it feels suspiciously like happiness. Trust Charles Xavier to throw him off balance like this. He thinks that Charles gets a rush from defying the expected. It makes him smile; he feels like a lunatic, smiling to himself in an abandoned hallway. If this is madness, he thinks he's more than happy with it.

*

"How did it go, sir?" Azazel asks when Erik strides into work the next morning.

"Was the building demolished?"

"...No."

"Then it went well." It went more than well, in Erik's estimation. He may even have a bounce in his step now. "Clear my meeting at midday. I don't want to be disturbed."

"Of course," Azazel says as he writes it down. "Anything else?"

"Tell the front desk that Charles Xavier will be visiting me at lunch today," Erik says.

Before he leaves the office to carry out Erik's instructions, Azazel's tail swishes back and forth like a sun-drunk snake. Erik thinks that's a sign that he's pleased - with Erik or with himself, it isn't quite clear.

*

His office has not looked so neat since he first claimed it. Erik stands behind his desk and surveys his dominion with a critical eye. Most of the furniture in here has metal lining or flourishes, at his request, so it is easy to twitch a finger and rearrange it all as is necessary. He shifts one of the chairs another inch to the left.

It doesn't look right there.

He moves it straight back.

After that, he sets about rearranging the pens on his desk. He tries to make himself stop. It's quarter to twelve; there are still fifteen minutes to go before lunch. He hasn't been able to focus on work all day - it's all Charles's fault. Perhaps this is the HMA's great plan to undermine him simply by distracting him. If that is their intention, it's working.

He scrubs his hand over his face and curses himself for neglecting to have a mirror in here. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he wonders if it would be considered too vain to call Azazel through here for the sole purpose to checking whether or not he looks okay.

No, not okay. He needs to look far more than _okay_.

He's about to entertain his greatest enemy and his biggest crush and quite possibly the love of his life.

Oh, dear god.

He decides to scrub that last thought from his memory. It's horrifying.

He withholds a groan and checks the clock again.

Fourteen minutes to go.

*

With eleven minutes to go, he decides that he should have a plant in here, a flower or a shrub or _something_ to make it look alive and healthy.

If he can't even show that he's capable of keeping a plant alive, Charles is sure to think that he's an inhuman monster.

"Azazel!" he shouts.

*

With eight minutes to go, he has a large spider plant sitting in the corner of his office, its leaves fanning out comfortably.

"Will that do?" Azazel asks, only slightly out of breath. It's impressive.

"It'll have to," Erik answers, although he frowns at the plant and wonders whether it looks loved enough.

*

When they get to three minutes to go, he starts pacing. He can't stop glancing at the clock every few minutes, even though he can just as easily sense the metal of the second hand ticking. It's going too slowly. He's sure of it.

*

It's minus one minute to go.

Charles isn't here.

He isn't _here_.

*

Minus three minutes.

No Charles.

*

Minus eight minutes. He must have been hit by a car.

He must have been flattened by a falling aeroplane.

He must have eloped with a passing Elvis impersonator.

He must have changed his name and grown a moustache and moved to Mexico just to avoid coming to lunch with Erik. He'll do terribly down there. His skin will burn far too easily.

Erik stares out of the window and idly wonders if it would be a misuse of government funding to send all of the FBI, CIA and all domestic police officers to find him. Probably. Might be easier to find a mutant who can locate missing persons.

He looks at the phone and debates making a call to the Resources Department to see if someone can find a suitable mutant for him - and, as he looks at it, it bursts to life and buzzes angrily at him. He presses the metal-plated button without touching it.

"Mr Xavier is on his way up," says the receptionist from the front desk.

He thanks her and tries to estimate how long it ought to take Charles to get up there.

In the meantime, he fusses with his appearance one last time and makes an unsuccessful attempt to see his reflection in the glass of the window. He looks fine; he must look fine.

He's the leader of mutant-kind. Even if he looks like a turd everyone has to tell him he looks fabulous. Unfortunately, he has the distinct impression that Charles doesn't follow that kind of logic.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, why did he ever think that this was a good idea? It's clearly a terrible one that is going to end badly. He hopes that Charles is here to try to assassinate him. He thinks that such an attempt might actually be less nerve-wracking than having to sit through a companionable lunch.

 _Think of the battlefield_ , he tells himself, in the way that he always does before he is about to do something stressful. He remembers the scent of blood and guts and the way that it had felt to watch others die by his hand; he remembers how it had felt to be on the brink of death himself.

By comparison, one meeting with Charles Xavier shouldn't feel at all terrifying.

That doesn't stop the churn of nerves in his stomach.

There is a brief knock on the door before Charles enters, his cheeks slightly flushed. He's dressed more casually than Erik usually sees him; barring his one glimpse of Charles in his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, he usually sees him in the guise of a high-class brothel owner, with shirts and tailored suits making up his wardrobe.

Today there is a white t-shirt and a loose-fitting grey sweater. The wool looks so soft and comfortable that Erik wants to reach out and sink his fingers into it (and, truly, that would be a better idea than any of the other things that he wants to do with his hands right now). What stuns him the most is seeing Charles like this; it's like spying him off-duty, especially after encountering him in his tux last night.

"Charles," Erik says. There are other words that ought to follow his name, but they refuse to come out.

He thinks he ought to be glad that his voice hadn't simply broken.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Charles says. He slips his messenger bag from his shoulder and holds it awkwardly in his hands. "I always manage to get lost whenever I have an appointment. Sod's law, I suppose."

"I could have sent Azazel to bring you here," Erik points out.

Charles smiles. "I would think that your second-in-command has better things to do with his time than play fetch."

"I honestly have no idea," Erik confesses. He hasn't the faintest clue what Azazel does with his time here; he only knows that things fall apart to a worrying degree whenever he takes a few days off. He waves towards the pair of seats near the window. "Here, sit down. Would you like anything to drink?"

"I brought a picnic with me, actually," Charles admits as he walks towards the window. At home already, in that easy sense of confidence he has, he starts to pull Tupperware boxes out of his bag. "We didn't make any concrete plans so I thought it was best to be prepared. The Manor's chef helped me make it so it ought to be edible."

It's more than edible, in fact, although Erik finds it difficult to pay the slightest bit of attention to what they're eating. It almost seems a waste.

"I like your office," Charles says to break the silence after Erik has been staring at him for a moment too long. "It's very... metallic."

"It's no Oval Office, but it's functional." Erik looks away to study the metal-lined and -studded room that he spends most of his time in these days. "Most people find it imposing."

Charles crooks a smile at him. "I'm not exactly most people," he explains.

Erik snorts in response. It's extremely undignified and embarrassing and it makes Charles laugh and that is nearly enough to tempt him into doing it again. "No," he agrees, "you're the oddest man I've ever met."

Meeting his eyes, Charles nods. "Thank you."

"You must hear a lot of compliments," Erik says - he thinks he sounds bitter. That's not his intention, not exactly. "It must get dull."

"It did, for a while," Charles says with alarming honesty. "When I was working at the Manor... It stopped meaning anything, eventually. Every night I'd hear someone telling me that they loved me, that I was beautiful - I know it sounds conceited, but after a while you start to take it for granted."

Erik swallows. He doesn't think he's had such open access to Charles's life and his past before. It's new and shiny and terrifying. "Is that why you retired?" he asks. He's wanted to know for so long.

Charles smiles; the expression holds a thousand regrets and mysteries. "Not exactly. It was a factor."

Erik forces himself to stare at the boxes of Tupperware sitting open and half-consumed on his coffee table. If he doesn't look at Charles, he doesn't have to feel quite so weak. "Can I ask about it?" he asks - and, damn it, he's the leader of mutant kind, but he can't even feel cross for being forced to beg for scraps of information. He can only be delighted with what he does get. "Why did you leave?"

"Most people would rather ask me how I started," Charles says. Erik instantly frowns and wonders if that is perhaps a more apt question. "You probably won't like it."

Erik waves him onwards anyway. He takes hold of a new sandwich from Charles's picnic box and alternates between watching Charles and watching the bread. Charles is more hypnotising; the sandwich is more calming.

"I quit because of you."

Abruptly, Erik chokes on his sandwich.

It doesn't seem so soothing any more.

*

After they have paused to fetch Erik a glass of water and to ensure that he is no longer at risk of choking to death, he manages to get Charles to continue. His heart sinks as it becomes apparent that, no, Charles did not in fact forsake all other men after meeting him because he fell in love with him at first sight.

"Once the Brotherhood rose to power, I didn't have a choice," Charles says wistfully. "I'd hoped that following the war we might return to less extreme politics, but when it gradually became clear that that wasn't the case - well, I could hardly stand by and watch. I wanted to help."

Erik's jaw clenches. As much as he adores Charles's company, he doesn't want to have lunch with the leader of the HMA. He wants to spend time with Charles as he knows him from the Manor; charming and mysterious and distant.

"I used to have a wonderful old client, Clive. He was a lovely old man - he must be in his 70s now at the very least. He had a standing appointment with me, once a month every month from the moment I started work." There's a fond smile on his face that Erik can't quite understand. It's sad and it's distant. "A few years ago, I received a frantic phone call in the middle of the night. He said he'd been receiving threats from the Brotherhood and he was fleeing to Europe. He wanted me to come with him."

"Threats from us? What do you mean?"

"He had a mutation that allowed him to change his hair colour at will; a much weaker and more localised version of Raven's ability, I imagine. Apparently your dear followers had decided that even harassing humans wasn't enough for them any more."

Erik shakes his head. "You can't pin that on me."

"I'm not trying to assign blame for anything, Erik," Charles assures him - and Erik very nearly believes him. "When it comes to the kind of rhetoric that the Brotherhood uses, it's almost inevitable that this kind of mentality will take hold. If you preach superiority, you can hardly be surprised when people begin to believe they're superior."

"Mutants are superior to humans," Erik intones. It is a simple, inarguable fact. Mutants are _better_. "Mutants are a great brotherhood; I would never encourage us to turn on each other."

"Yet you respect those with flashier abilities." Charles smiles. "What must you think of me? I've never crushed a plane with a flick of my fingers or leaped into flight in front of you."

"Whatever your mutation is, it's beautiful," Erik states. He wets his lips. "Can I see it?"

He's setting himself up for disappointment, he knows that. Regardless of what he says, he knows that it will be a shame to realise that Charles's mutation does not nearly match his own. Very little does. Very little can.

Charles looks almost coy as he shakes his head. "I'd rather not," he says. "It can make some people fairly uncomfortable around me."

"No one should be ashamed of who they are, least of all you." This is what he wants to stamp out; this is what he has always wanted to stamp out. Mutant and proud. It isn't just a political slogan. He wants everyone to be able to hold their head high and glory in what nature has made them. "I won't be uncomfortable. Look."

He holds out his hand and summons a strip of metal from the edge of the desk. As he focuses, the metal softens to a shimmering stream before straightening upwards beneath his palm. A long stalk appears, encrusted with thorns, and the top fattens until petals bloom in liquid metal. It solidifies under his command and lowers to rest in his hand. He looks up to find Charles watching the display with a small, fond smile on his face, a smile that grows into embarrassed delight when Erik holds it out for him.

"I never would have thought of you as a hopeless romantic," Charles says. He reaches forward to take the gift from Erik's hands.

Their fingers brush. Erik has seen too much of Charles's absent-minded grace to pretend that it's accidental. It sends a thrill straight through him, right to his toes. "It's your turn," he prompts, while Charles looks down at the metallic rose and examines it thoughtfully. "I've shown you mine."

"I'd really rather not," Charles insists, so gently and quietly that it's difficult to be angry with him.

"Is it embarrassing?" Erik asks. "Intimate?" In a way that makes sense - he had once met a woman who could make a person orgasm from the other side of the room. Such an ability would be highly useful in Charles's line of work.

Charles shakes his head. "Nothing like that," he murmurs. He looks away from the rose, back up to Erik to meet his eyes thoughtfully. "What if I hardly had a power at all? What if I didn't have one? Would you still be so fond of me?"

'Fond'. It's an interesting, underwhelming way of putting it. Erik feels bare and exposed to have his infatuation pulled bluntly into the open; it's been a secret all of this time, surely. He's always believed that.

"I'd care for you even if you were human," he states.

Charles shakes his head and chuckles. It's an utterly mirthless sound. "We both know that isn't true," he says. "Look at your preferred partners at the Manor. Mystique, Beast, Angel... They all have incredibly visible mutations. If I was human you would never have so much as noticed me. Now you're desperate for me to reveal that I have a power worthy of your attention. It's a test, Erik, and it's a petty one."

"You're not being fair."

Charles breathes through his nose once then twice, like a dragon releasing his anger. Erik has never seen him worked up before - it makes him want to prod him a little bit harder, just to see where that might lead.

"I didn't come here to fight with you," Charles sighs.

"Then why did you come?" Erik snaps. It's like torture, being forced to be around him when he can't work out the man's motives. It had almost been better, easier, when Charles had been distant and untouchable. Observing him and wanting him from a fleeting distance is far safer than having the man in his office, so strange and unknowable.

"I like you," Charles says. The three words hang in the air for long moment. Charles's head dips so that he can look back down at the rose in his hands. "When you first booked an appointment at the Manor, I fully expected to find you arrogant and - and _evil_ , I suppose. Irredeemable."

"You were perfectly polite to me at the time." Erik can still remember it clearly, being greeted by Charles and escorted to the bar by him - so utterly charmed that within five minutes he had asked if Charles could be his for the night instead. With a polite smile, Charles had informed him that he was retired; Erik still hasn't quite recovered from his disappointment.

"It's my job - I was hardly going to slam the door in your face, was I?" Charles leans back in his seat, long and lounging like a tamed cat. "But you were - I'm not sure what the right word would be. Vulnerable. Sweet."

_What?_

Erik is sorely tempted to defend his honour. He has had a great many adjectives applied to him over his time in the spotlight. He isn't sure if any of them have been nearly as alarming as the ones coming forth from Charles's mouth now.

Yet the expression on Charles's face is as fond as it is conflicted.

Erik isn't going to let any debates over vocabulary get in the way of that.

"I think you're very lonely, and you're very lost." Charles finds his gaze and holds it; Charles's eyes are damnably intense, too blue and too wide and too stunning for Erik to fight or conquer. "And, sometimes, I am too."

Erik can feel his sanity slipping away. He thinks that if he stays in Charles's presence he's going to lose track of the outside world - especially if Charles talks to him like this and looks at him like that. Nothing else is going to matter.

He doesn't argue. He doesn't say that he's not lonely; he doesn't claim that he's not lost.

He bridges the distance between them. Yesterday it had seemed to span miles. Today, Charles is only an arms-breadth away. Their hands slip together, the metal flower dropping into Charles's lap. Their fingers tangle.

"We're not alone," Erik says. He sounds like a sentimental idiot; he's never felt better in his life. His mouth is dry. "I swear it, Charles. We are not alone."

He doesn't let go of Charles's hand, not now that he has it. It's alright. Charles seems to be in no hurry to slip away.

Charles allows him to hold his hand for the rest of their lunch, even when it makes eating and drinking difficult. His palm is hot and comfortable in Erik's grasp; the contact between them is all that Erik can think about. It makes handling an actual conversation very difficult. It's irritating, almost, because he wants to pay proper attention. As Charles talks about Enlightenment philosophers, Erik wants to follow along because otherwise Charles is going to think that he's an idiot.

Instead Charles's hand is there.

It's a damned distraction.

"I could take it away if you'd like," Charles says.

Erik's head shoots up to look at him again. He finds an affectionate smile and a trickle of amusement in Charles's eyes.

"My hand," Charles clarifies. "You've been glaring at it for at least five minutes."

"Leave it." Erik's grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to clarify that he doesn't want Charles to pull it away. "You have very soft skin."

If anything, Charles's smile manages to look even more amused. Damn it. "There isn't a lot of physical labour involved with being a professor," Charles admits.

Erik turns Charles's hand over and runs his thumb along the lines of his palm, exploring now that he is allowed to touch. It makes him feel as if his blood is fizzing, filled with bubbles of nerves and excitement. "Good. I want to look after you," he admits, before he can process that that is hardly an appropriate sentiment for a first date.

"You hardly know me," Charles points out.

Erik thinks that he knows him perfectly. He has watched him and longed for him for years; no one else could know him better.

And yet...

There is that niggling thought at the back of his mind, the one that reminds him of all the things he hadn't known about Charles until only a week or so ago. He thinks of the HMA and Charles's bizarre views on human nature. He thinks of the purposeful mystery of Charles's power.

His jaw clenches for a moment, but he shakes his head and throws the thought away. "I know enough," he states.

"I represent everything you hate," Charles prods. It's as if he's shaking a beehive, so determined to get a reaction. Erik keeps his attention on Charles's palm; he won't rise to the bait. He won't allow Charles to be right. "I think you'd end up throttling me in frustration within the week."

"No," Erik insists. Every conversation that he has had with Charles has proved to him that the man is absolutely insufferable. He has insane views and he is too stubborn to listen to reason; he manages to stay ridiculously calm at all times and it makes it impossible for Erik to bear a grudge against him for more than a minute after looking into his eyes. "I haven't throttled you yet, have I?"

"You've come fairly close to it once or twice," Charles reminds him. "I'm merely trying to suggest that we should take things one step at a time; perhaps we ought to get to know each other a little better before you make any rash decisions about 'looking after' me."

There's nothing rash about it; Erik has been thinking about it for five years now.

Yet the thought of getting to know Charles better is an enticing one, so he nods in agreement. "Does that mean I get to have another date?" he asks, glancing up. A smirk forms on his face despite his nerves. If he doesn't manage to calm down around Charles, sooner or later he'll develop an ulcer. "I could provide the food this time."

Charles's eyes are bright and alive. "I'm going back to Oxford in a couple of days," he says. Erik forces his smile to stay on his face, even if his heart is sinking and he wants to crush all of the metal in the room. "You do, however, have a teleporter in your employ..."

Abruptly, the metal in the room is no longer at threat.

"Are you -" Erik pauses for a moment, cautious of being humiliated again. Charles has so much power over him. He could crush him easily; no other being in the world could do that to him with a simple word. 'No'. "Are you inviting me to Oxford?"

Charles nods. "There's a cinema in town. Most movies these days are dreadful, but I'm sure we could find something to keep us distracted."

Two hours sitting beside Charles in the dark... Erik hasn't had the desire to see a film in his entire life; with the promise of secluded proximity, however, he is inclined to reconsider his views on the entire industry.

At two o'clock, the intercom on his desk buzzes and intrudes on their intimacy. "Sorry to interrupt, sir. Your Advisor on Human Relations is here."

For a few long moments, Erik is very tempted to crush the phone into pieces. He should have cleared his entire day's schedule. He has already spent an unfeasible amount of time with Charles today, but he wants more; he can't think of this as a wasted afternoon.

"I suppose I should go," Charles says.

A muscle in Erik's jaw twitches; he contemplates whether or not he can ask Charles to stay. This meeting is bound to be dull and argumentative, but it will be in Charles's area of expertise. Dealing with the human situation, and what to do with the unevolved creatures that live beneath mutant-kind, is one of the more persistent problems with ruling a new world. Charles has apparently taken the issue to heart - if he hadn't been so hard-headedly wrong about the entire issue, he could have been useful.

Erik stands up and crosses to his desk to answer the secretary, while Charles clears up the remains of their lunch. It's impossible not to watch him, even as Erik knows he ought to mentally prepare for the meeting to come. He hates his work, he decides with a ferocity that surprises him. He hates anything that could interrupt a date that was going so well.

With his jacket on and his bag over his shoulder, Charles straightens up and looks at Erik with a smile that is half-way between coy and teasing. He beckons Erik towards him. "Come over here, Erik." He comes like a dog on a lead.

Once he's close enough, Charles places a hand on his shoulder as if it is the most natural thing to do. Erik is still reeling from that new contact when he realises that Charles's face is tilted towards him, angled in close, and that his lips are so red, so lush, so perfect - so close.

His breath is short and he feels almost light-headed when Charles closes the distance between them to brush their lips together. His kiss lands purposefully off-centre, pressed against the corner of Erik's mouth.

Dry and closed-lipped, it ought to be the most chaste thing that Erik has experienced in his life, yet it makes his breath stutter in his chest. Charles is warm and pliant against him, his lips soft and achingly gentle. When Erik jerks to life after the shock his hands move to Charles's hips. He yanks him forward, closer, harder, and feels the firm line of Charles's body against his own.

Before he can ease Charles's lips open, Charles pulls away from him.

Erik will, until his dying day, deny any knowledge of the broken whimper that may or may not break out of his chest.

"You have a meeting," Charles reminds him, but he's still so close, and Erik still has his hands on his hips.

 _Fuck the meeting_ , he wants to say, especially when he looks at Charles to find him shy and grinning. It's a change to the easy confidence that he usually exudes; it makes him feel better about the way his heart is racing. He isn't the only one affected. He isn't the only one that's falling apart.

Charles kisses him again, but this time he aims for his cheek and doesn't allow Erik to redirect him. "I'll see you soon," Charles promises. "Very soon."

The sooner the better. If Erik had thought his addiction was bad before, it's nothing compared to the impossibility of letting Charles go now.

Charles is going to be the ruin of him. He can't quite bring himself to resist it.

*

He's in an unnaturally good mood for the next few days, practically waltzing his Human Relations Advisor around his office. The poor woman seems galled by his cheerful attitude. Perhaps she thinks he's on drugs. She'd hardly be far wrong, after all.

Azazel spends most of his time smirking, and he diligently waters the new plant in Erik's office. He doesn't utter a single complaint when Erik asks to be brought over to Oxford several days later. There are certainly several advantages to having Azazel around.

"Are you sure it is a wise idea to go alone?" Azazel asks.

Erik frowns. "I hardly think that Charles is going to harm me," he points out. He doubts if Charles is even capable of it were he so inclined - his mutation must be weak. There is nothing to fear. Yet Azazel's eyes narrow in the way they only do when he thinks Erik is being rash. "What?"

"Your face is very recognisable," Azazel reminds him.

"You think that someone is going to try to assassinate me?"

They haven't been this paranoid since the end of the war. Erik wonders if there has been a more pressing threat against his life than usual. He receives death threats daily through the post; most of them are little more than impotent humans expressing their outrage.

Azazel's smile is as affectionate as it is alarming. "I mean that you may find it difficult to find any privacy."

Erik is rarely out on the street these days. With Azazel on his staff, he can go from building to building without having to face the public. The only time that he has to interact with the people he rules is at orchestrated events, when he will approach an adoring public to hold babies and encourage children to stay away from drugs. It's a tiring ordeal.

If any baby-wielding parents try to distract him from his date, he won't be pleased.

"I can't bring any bodyguards along," he complains. It would hardly set the mood - and after the chaste kiss that Charles had granted him last time, he is rather hoping that the mood will be perfect this time around.

"Wear sunglasses. No one will know it's you," Azazel suggests.

He teleports out of the office before Erik has the chance to throw any projectiles at him.

*

Despite Azazel's misgivings, everything seems to go well - he adopts the time-honoured technique of merely keeping his head down. No bodyguards. Certainly no sunglasses.

Walking around with his eyes on his feet has the added bonus of amusing Charles once they've met up outside the cinema. "You're possibly the shiftiest-looking man I've ever seen," Charles tells him. "You look like you're planning a murder."

"If I were planning a murder, I'd be far more subtle about it."

"That is incredibly reassuring." Charles leads them into the cinema, which is a huge, glitzy abomination. The floor is sticky and there are giant posters everywhere. Erik doesn't recognise any of the actors staring at him from the walls; he tends only to pay attention to those who are politically important.

Charles leaves his side to go to buy them the tickets and popcorn. When Erik had started to protest, Charles had placed a warm hand over his mouth and told him not to argue.

It's unsporting, really. Erik thinks that Charles must be aware of what that physical contact does to him. He must know that it short-circuits his ability to think.

Charles, he thinks, is far more cunning than he likes to reveal.

Standing by a poster of an actor's giant face, Erik crosses his arms over his chest and watches Charles. There's a certain sense of surreality to the experience - to how normal he seems in this environment. He isn't the exotic creature that Erik would usually expect; he's just like everybody else. He fumbles with his wallet and chats good-naturedly with the surly cashier. Charles has an entire life here in Oxford, Erik reminds himself. Charles has an entire world of his own, far removed from what Erik has ever imagined.

He doesn't exist only in the walls of the Manor. He doesn't exist only to tempt and tease him. There's more to him than that.

It's fantastic.

He doesn't notice the woman and her son drifting closer and closer to him until she is standing right in front of him, blocking his view of Charles. His attention snaps towards her, eyes narrowed and sharp enough to make her swallow in alarm.

"Sorry," she says breathlessly. "I'm sorry, I just - are you... This is going to sound so silly. Are you really Erik Lehnsherr?"

He is extremely tempted to deny it, but the little boy is looking up at him with crystal blue eyes. He makes himself smile. "Yes, I am," he admits, reaching forward to shake the woman's hand.

She grips it warmly and smiles as if he is one of the actors from the movies that are worshipped here. The little boy watches him as if he's waiting for Erik to do something interesting, but he doesn't say a word, not even when his mother nudges him.

"He's shy," she says. "I'm sorry."

It's a pleasant meeting, and that ought to be the end of it - and it would be, except she raises her voice to call to her husband, and Erik can see hell ready to break loose. There are a lot of people crowded into this foyer - and Charles himself is living proof that not everyone is a huge fan of Erik's vision.

His spine straightens. Instinctively, he reaches out for every atom of metal in the vicinity. He doesn't manipulate it, not yet. It's like running his hand over the hilt of a knife.

They trickle towards him, with shy expressions and sweet, bland words. He shakes their hands and wishes them well and wonders how he's going to get hold of Charles again, how they're going to escape, and how he's going to convince himself never to venture out in the open again - regardless of how tempting the sound of a date is.

"My daughter's been placed in a home," a man says while Erik is shaking his hand. His grip tightens and his nails dig into the back of Erik's hand so that he can't pull away. "At school she starts levitating. Next thing I know I've got five of your goons at my doorstep telling me I'm not fit to raise my own flesh and blood. It's not right. You _stole_ her from me."

"I never intended to 'steal' anyone's child," Erik assures him, trying to break free of his grip. It isn't working, and all he can think about is how easy it would be to take the frames of this man's glasses and force them deep into his skull. So easy; so tempting. With a little bloodshed he could be free of this sticky mess. "The Parenting Reformation Act was designed with the welfare of both mutant and human in mind. If you've-"

"You're a goddamn bigot, you know that?" the man spits. There is a mixture of triumph and dismay in the small, swamping crowd. No one seems willing to intervene. "Someone's going to take you down soon, Lehnsherr. I just hope I'm there to see it."

There's no weapon on the man's body. Erik can't feel the metal of a gun or the hidden blade of a knife on him. He isn't a threat, but that doesn't stop Erik from being threatened - it doesn't stop heat from rising to his face, his heart thumping in his ears, his blood racing with the never-forgotten need to destroy. All it would take would be to -

Without warning, the man lets go of his hand and takes a step backwards, giving Erik the breathing space that he needs to gather his thoughts and rein in his temper. Thankfully, no one else rushes forward to take his place.

Weaving through the small crowd with far too much ease, Charles pushes to his side and takes him by the elbow. His other hand is pressed against his temple as if massaging away a headache. Erik's eyes linger on his fingers.

"I have the tickets," Charles says, his voice tense and controlled, "although at this point I'd understand if you'd rather give it a miss."

Erik's mind has never been further from a damn movie. No one else in the crowd is moving towards him. The man who until a few moments ago had seemed determined to spit in his face is now heading in the direction of the concessions stand. The woman and her small son have turned their backs to him and are walking towards their screening. It's as if he and Charles aren't there at all, as if they were never there.

"What did you do?" Erik murmurs in hushed surprise.

"Nothing," Charles says, too quickly, too panicked. "Erik, they must have got bored. That's all."

"It's you," Erik insists. He's never seen a crowd dissipate so rapidly or so easily. "You did it. How?" His mutation. His beautiful, secretive mutation - it's here in the air around them now, it's in the press of Charles's fingers against his temple. It is _here_ , so close that Erik could almost touch it. "What can you do?"

Charles gives a half-laugh that is utterly unconvincing. "Do you really think that 'crowd control' is my mutation?"

"You don't have to be scared of me," Erik promises without responding to that question.

He's on edge now - he can't help himself. There's more strength in Charles than he had realised; there is more to him than just the warm pink of his smile and the always-present glimmer of intelligence in his eyes.

There is power.

As terrifying as it is enthralling, Erik stares at Charles with newly opened eyes - he waits for the pieces to fall into place, or for Charles to relent and reveal all. Charles's fingers slip back down to his side from his temple.

"I'm not doing this here. I don't want anyone to get hurt," Charles says quietly.

It takes Erik a moment to realise that Charles isn't talking about himself - he's talking about what Erik might do. He's worried about what Erik's reaction is going to be, and that worry is painted all over his face.

"Then let's go," Erik insists, because he won't wait any longer for this than he has to.

Some issues need to be dealt with _immediately_.

Charles takes him back to his house, a shared building in the suburbs of Oxford. At any other time, Erik would be able to spend more time in careful examination of every detail. There are photographs hung on the wall in the hallway and nick-nacks on a small table by the door. Charles dumps his keys into a hand-painted bowl with easy familiarity.

"I'd offer you a tour, but there isn't much to see," Charles says. "It's rather dwarfed by the Manor."

"Anything would be," Erik points out. Compared to a sprawling mansion, a three-bedroom house doesn't stand much of a chance. "I'm not here to admire the architecture."

Charles swallows and nods. He leads Erik through to a small sitting room. It contains two slightly beaten up couches and the decor looks as if someone's grandmother designed it. It's quaint; it seems inherently _Charles_ in all its musty glory. The far wall is covered by a huge bookcase, every shelf stuffed with scientific volumes or heavy classics.

"Take a seat," Charles invites. Erik perches on the arm of the couch, unable to relax enough to take a proper seat. His body is as tense as if he was about to go back into battle. "I really don't know what I'm supposed to say."

"Speak to me," Erik insists. "For god's sake, Charles, just tell me what you can do. I'm not a monster. You calmed a bad situation down back there. I'm grateful."

Charles frowns as if he doesn't quite believe that Erik is even capable of such an emotion. It's rather unfair. "What do you think I did?" he asks dubiously.

Erik shakes his head, not quite sure how to answer that. "I couldn't say. They were angry - _I_ was angry. Then you were there." Because of Charles, the large crowd had abruptly lost interest in him. "Were you in their heads, Charles? Were you in my head?"

"I didn't touch you," Charles insists. "I persuaded the others that you weren't of interest."

"Persuaded," Erik repeats.

"I'm a telepath."

"I've met telepaths before," Erik says. "They read thoughts. They don't create them."

"I'm a very powerful telepath," Charles clarifies. Sitting on the opposite couch from Erik, he rests his elbows on his knees and watches his reaction with calm blue eyes. Stressed and small, Charles doesn't look very powerful at all.

Erik's eyes narrow thoughtfully. "How powerful?" he asks. He needs to know the limits; he needs to know how alarmed he ought to be. Telepaths are security threats, after all. Charles's proximity has been worrying enough considering his position as the head of the HMA. If he can travel restlessly through people's minds, if he can control them at will - the possibilities are dark and endless. "What can you do?"

Charles fumbles as if he's trying to find an answer. "I don't abuse it," he promises. "I've never... I wouldn't..."

"Have you been in my mind?" His voice has hardened without his will. "What have you seen?"

"Erik..."

"You must have found it so amusing, listening to me - when I thought - when I felt..." God, how many embarrassing things has he thought around Charles? His thoughts have been a mixture of sappy longing and heated fantasy - and now he finds that Charles has had an ear open to them all. There are no secrets. Everything is laid open to Charles's mutation, and he can't help but feel utterly ashamed.

"I try to keep myself out," Charles assures him. "Sometimes it spills out, and I can't help myself, but I don't go looking through people's thoughts without very good reason."

"There are other aspects to your ability than just mind-reading," Erik says, trying to stay on-target. This can't be about his insecure thoughts; there is more to worry about, still. He can go back to being embarrassed later. "Have you ever used that on me?"

"'That'?"

"Don't play dumb. Have you ever tried to control my mind?"

"Why would I have to?" Charles answers. It's not what Erik had been expecting. "Erik, a few days ago you were vowing that you wanted to 'look after' me. Even if I'd needed something, I wouldn't have had to control your mind to get it."

"Politically," Erik clarifies. He doesn't want to talk about the more emotionally-inclined aspects. "You disagree with me and the Brotherhood on every single point. Why spend your time writing letters and raising funds when you could change it all yourself?" In Charles's shoes, with such enormous power, that is exactly what he would have done. All it would take would be a few tweaks in the right minds and the world would fall under Charles's powers. It's a staggering thought.

Yet Charles is shaking his head. "'I think therefore I am'," he quotes. "If I think for people, for _everyone_ , they cease to exist." Charles's frown is an adorable thing. "It could be the end of civilisation, as melodramatic as that sounds."

It does sound ridiculous - but Erik has met other world-shattering mutants as well, he tells himself. He has seen children who could tear the world apart, atom by atom. Charles, simple and gentle Charles, doesn't look as if he should possess such an ability. Erik is torn between being impressed and wishing that Charles had possessed something far smaller and far simpler.

"Can I trust you?" Erik asks.

Charles's expression is so open that Erik forgets he is capable of hiding anything. "I hope so," he says.

Hope isn't good enough. Erik needs certainties. He has never been able to handle life on faith alone.

"I want to see what it's like. Make me do something."

"You don't want me to do that," Charles states flatly.

"Do it," Erik orders. "That way I'll be able to recognise if you try anything in the future."

He sees the flash of anger on Charles's face, even if it is smoothed over within seconds. It's red and storm-filled. "Stand up," Charles sighs.

Erik is about to ask Charles why he needs to do it, when he realises that he's already on his feet. He looks down at his legs and frowns. "Did you..." He doesn't finish the question. "Do it again. This time I'll be ready."

This time he's going to resist. He focuses hard on staying exactly where he is, while Charles rests his head in the palm of his hand and watches him from across the room. Erik locks his knees and glowers at the book shelf, telling himself that he is stronger than any mutation, that his mind is a powerful machine, that he -

He finds himself sitting back down again. He looks around and blinks in surprise.

"I didn't even notice you doing that," he murmurs, speaking almost to himself. Charles could very easily slip into his mind and pull the right strings. He'd never know - Charles is like a thief that leaves no fingerprints, but far more dangerous. When Charles commits a crime, no one could even know. No one would ever know that he'd done a single thing. "My god, Charles."

"If you want to leave now, I won't blame you," Charles states.

He looks small and fragile on his couch, surrounded by his books. His natural instinct is to reach out and tell Charles that there is nothing to be ashamed of or scared about; he could tell him to be proud of what he can do, because it is world-changing.

He stays where he is.

He offers no reassurance.

"I need to clear my head," he says as his excuse. It isn't convincing enough. "I mean, I need to think things over."

"You can use my phone, if you'd like," Charles offers. "I can leave the room. I'll... Well, I have papers to mark. I can get on with that, and you can be rid of me for the night."

So accommodating, so unjudgemental, just the sound of it drives Erik mad for a few moments. His hands clench. "Do you have to be so understanding?" he snaps.

Charles's eyebrows rise. He gets up from the couch and stands awkwardly in front of it, too far away from Erik and too close at the same time. "I do, actually. I've been inside the heads of everyone I've ever met. It would be difficult not to understand them."

He still speaks in a way that is soothing and relaxed, as if Erik's irritation and short temper is perfectly excusable. It's not. Charles is a mutant, and a powerful one at that - Erik should be celebrating him. He should encourage him to be open with his gift, to flaunt it and wield it with pride.

 _Mutant and Proud_ , that's the Brotherhood's slogan for a reason.

Yet his memories burn with embarrassment and he wants to hide somewhere far, far away from Charles.

"Just go," he sighs.

"I'm sorry." Charles's apology makes Erik want to snap at him again. He wants to throw something at him, something large and heavy and sharp, until Charles stops being so damn apologetic and _nice_. If Charles would snap and start shouting and swearing at him, then this entire experience would be so much easier.

Instead, Erik has to watch as Charles leaves the room, abandoning him in his own house. Erik feels like an invader inside Charles's quaint living room. He makes a long-distance call to Azazel, demanding an immediate retrieval.

It feels like a cowardly retreat. It _is_ one.

*

Several drinks later, he manages to convince himself that it had been a tactical retreat instead.

In the morning, he clutches his head and contemplates destroying the world instead of going to work that day.


	3. Chapter 3

Sadly, the day-to-day business of government doesn't get cancelled simply because he has found out that his perfect man has the ability to play with people like a god. Terribly inconvenient. He has to attend meetings and sit through an incredibly boring committee. It would have been difficult enough to pay attention even if he hadn't had other matters on his mind.

He thinks he may have just agreed to a tax hike. At the very least, the way that Riptipe is staring at him in surprise is any indication it would seem that he is behaving fairly uncharacteristically.

He makes it to lunch without leaving his government in ruins; he locks himself in his office at midday, leans against the door, and tells himself that he is doing remarkably well. Placing his head in his hands, he finds his fingers automatically checking his skull for any bumps or lumps, as if evidence of Charles's tampering might be so easily discovered.

He should pick up the phone. He's aware of that.

He should call Charles and they should talk.

Yet what could he say? What questions could he ask when he doesn't know whether he can even trust the answer? Yes, hiding seems like a far better option.

God, he feels like a damned idiot. All those years, all those thoughts - all of them overheard by Charles, every filthy detail. It's a wonder Charles hasn't been on the floor laughing every time they've met. Maybe, behind Erik's back, he has been.

With a groan of frustration, he summons the phone to his hand, but it isn't Charles's number that he dials this time. Rather, it is the fifth number on his speed dial.

It takes only three rings before the call is answered, with Moira's serene voice coming across the line. "How can we help?" she asks after informing him that he has reached The Xavier Manor.

He swallows and tells him that this is a foolish idea. Any wise person would know to drop the matter and leave well enough alone.

Erik has never really been 'wise'.

"I'd like to make an appointment with Mystique," he says. "As soon as possible."

"Erik, it's lovely to hear from you," Moira says as she recognises his voice. He can sense a smile in her voice, and wonders how much of it is real - how much of anything that goes on inside the Manor is real is no doubt a matter that has troubled many a client. It's all a beautiful illusion, but everyone wants to believe that it's different for them; that the feelings are real, that the consorts truly love them, that the orgasms aren't faked. Erik doesn't want to be an idiot. He wants to believe that he can sense a faked smile. "I think she has a free slot next Wednesday, if that's any use."

"No." He doesn't mean to be so blunt - but he has questions, dozens of them. Mystique has answers. "I need to see her today."

"That won't be possible," Moira apologises. "Her client will be arriving in a few hours. I'm sorry - it's too late to reschedule anything."

"I am Erik Lehnsherr," he reminds her. "You'll figure something out."

He hangs up on her, which is possibly not the best way to end a conversation with the hostess of his favourite brothel. His gaze lingers apologetically on the phone for a few moments, as if she might be able to sense it. If he's lucky, it'll work.

He wonders, unwillingly, if Charles's telepathy works across phone lines. If it doesn't, then perhaps a purposefully long-distance relationship is the best route to go. He could keep enough of a distance to keep his thoughts safe and his mind's autonomy in tact, while still being able to hear from Charles and listen to his delightful accent.

And he wouldn't be able to see him, or touch him, or even smell him.

Overall that seems like a highly unworkable solution.

He flops into the chair behind his desk, losing all of the usual strict tension of his body. Resting his hand over his eyes, he counts to ten, and tells himself that he will be able to survive at least until Mystique manages to get here.

*

Mystique is glorious when she is angry. Her yellow eyes blaze like fire and she wears her nudity like a weapon, her entire body built for war.

It's something of a turn-on, Erik will admit.

"Just so you know, you're getting charged double for this," she snaps at him. "So you'd better have a good reason for it."

He has an extraordinarily good reason, although standing in the centre of one of the Manor's lush bedrooms wanting to do nothing more than talk feels like a waste. "Did Charles teach you to speak to your clients like that?"

"Charles spent an hour on the phone to me last night because of you," Mystique answers. "If you're about to start whining about the whole thing, bear in mind that my patience for it is running thin."

Charles had called Mystique. Because of _him_.

Erik swallows.

"What did he say to you?"

She crosses her arms over her chest. "He's worried," she says. "He always freaks out when someone finds out what he can do."

"His mutation is extraordinary." All mutations are wonderful, says the Brotherhood - but some, Erik would argue, are more wonderful than others. He wonders what Charles would say if he heard him saying that. He doesn't think that Charles would appreciate the sentiment, too wrapped up in his firm ideals of equality to appreciate difference. "He needn't be ashamed of it."

"Right. And it's so extraordinary that you're hiding over here instead of actually freaking talking to him. That's encouraging." When he and Mystique argue, it has previously been the warm bickering of friends. Erik doesn't feel warmth here. There is only anger and pain. "You can't say one thing and do another. It doesn't match up."

"I..." Erik scowls. He wants to have something to crush. He wants to be right, about everything, all at once. How else is he supposed to justify his rule? "It's more complicated than that. He can control my mind."

"Uh-huh?"

"So who's to say he's not doing it right now?" Erik asks. "The way I think about him... It isn't normal. It's constant and it's irritating and it's damnably distracting. He could've done that."

Mystique tilts her head as she stares at him. "Why?"

That is the one part that he hasn't quite managed to work into his paranoia just yet. It could be a method to distract him from his work, forcing him to leave projects unscrutinised and to allow underlings more responsibility than he should. Yet if Charles's object is to undermine his government, then with such an ability there are a lot more simpler ways to do it - simpler and far less cruel.

He heaves a sigh, mentally curses the world, and gets on with what he came here to ask. "I want to meet someone else that _knows_ him," he says, while wondering if he truly needs to be delicate in his phrasing around Mystique.

"You want to meet one of his old clients," she translates. "You know that's insane, right?"

Erik stares at her. Insane is over-selling the point. It's misguided, and if Charles knew he would stop him. That's why he's turned to Mystique. He'll pay whatever price she wants for the information.

"Can you do it or not?"

If she won't, he'll turn the Manor upside down himself until he finds someone that will. That method is bound to get back to Charles, however, and he doesn't want to explain himself. He doubts if he even could - all he knows is that he wants to look into the eyes of someone else that has been hooked. He needs to know if there is any sanity left.

More than that, worse than that, he needs someone who has been through it to tell him if what he's thinking is real.

*

Clive Thomson is spry for a seventy year old. He watches Erik with an eerie level of intelligence, tracking his every movement. Despite his age, his hair is bright red instead of a more conventional white. When he had answered the door, it had been blue. A petty mutation, but a diverting one all the same.

Erik watches the kaleidoscope of his hair while he clutches his cup of tea. Clive's hands tremble against the china. For all that he has been a polite and genial host, Erik can see the fear in his every movement.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he tells him once more. "I only want to chat."

"I don't often have to entertain men of your stature," Clive says. His voice rumbles like thunder. "You'll have to excuse my manners."

"There is nothing to excuse," Erik assures him. He wants answers, but the last thing he wants to do is terrorise an old man. Mystique, when he had pressed her, had initially suggested that he speak to Tony Stark. He had thought that this would be the easier option. "Do you remember Charles Xavier?"

Clive smiles warmly. "He's not someone easily forgotten," he says. "I get the impression you already know that."

"Are you aware of his ability?"

"I am," Clive confirms. "Are you?"

"He's a powerful telepath." The knowledge still sits uncomfortably inside his mind. It won't knit with his image of Charles, the thought of all of that power lurking inside his brain. "I'm here to investigate the exact nature of his gift."

"I can't promise I'll be of much use. I'm just an old man."

Clive's eyes are alert and guarded; he might be old, but Erik doubts he's weak or decrepit. "Just tell me what you can," he suggests. "When did you first meet him?"

"Must've been fourteen or fifteen years ago now. The War had just ended. The Manor auctioned off his virginity when he came of age: I was the successful buyer."

He grins when Erik's hand tightens on the handle of his teacup - his teeth are like a predator's. Erik refuses to rise to any bait, but he can't stop himself from thinking about it, how young Charles must have been, how unfair it all was.

"The Manor has been in the Xavier family for years. Charles had been working in the bar and as a general caretaker since he was sixteen; he was looking forward to joining the family business, as far as I understand. Please, Mr Lehnsherr, restrain your temper. You're many years too late to defend his honour."

Erik glares at his tea, and tells himself that he is glad that this man had to flee the country. The members of the Brotherhood who harassed him clearly knew what they were doing. "Regardless," he says, refusing to acknowledge how tight his voice sounds, "Did you have any first-hand experience with Charles's ability?"

"I've felt him in my head," Clive confirms.

"Did he ever try to control you?" Erik asks. "Were you ever left with the feeling that your actions were not your own?"

"He wouldn't be very good at controlling me if I knew he was doing it," Clive says with a wry smile. Erik doesn't return the expression. "As far as I'm aware, he did nothing of the sort. Illusions, shared sensations, that's as far as he went."

"How long were you a client of his?"

"From the beginning of his career until I left for Europe. Around five years, I'd say."

It's a long time, although Erik has been visiting the Manor for the same span now. It is an addictive place, even without telepathy to guide things along. Luxury, acceptance, pleasure, there are warm comforts in its walls. He tries not to think about what Charles and Clive could have spent five years doing - because if he thinks along those lines, he's not going to be able to stop. If he thinks like that, he's going to want to have this man destroyed.

"May I offer you some advice?" Clive asks, while his hair fades to a woody green colour. Erik nods. "One day soon, if he hasn't already, Charles is going to ask you if he can come into your mind. You should say no."

Erik's muscles tense, but he tries not to let his caution show on his face. "And why is that?"

"Nothing else will ever compare. Sooner or later he'll leave your mind - and after that, the world, it's going to seem grey." Clive shakes his head. The green of his hair is getting darker. "You'll never get over it."

"That sounds like the voice of experience."

"I asked him to move to Spain with me. He refused." His voice is steady, but Erik sees the twitch of anger in his expression. "My advice is to forget all about him. Walk away, Mr Lehnsherr. You'll be happier for it."

"I'll bear that in mind," he says.

He stays for longer to question him about the specifics of how he has seen Charles use his power, but there is no finesse in doing so. He doesn't want to hear about the exact details of Clive's sexual exploits, but it isn't as if Charles and Clive spent their time together playing scrabble. Clive talks about events he attended with Charles on his arm and meals they shared in exclusive restaurants, but the only area where Charles penetrated his mind was in the bedroom. Nothing else is relevant.

Erik leaves the bungalow with his mind seared with images he doesn't want; he's left thinking about all of the others who have had Charles in that way, all of the others who have thrown their fortunes away at the Manor for just one more hour with him. There must be dozens of ex-clients out there, all of them with similar stories and saddened lives. It makes his head throb and his stomach churn.

*

Restless in bed, he considers whether or not to contact the others on the slim list that Mystique had given him. "These are the ones that might be willing to talk to you," she had said. "I can't say for sure; Charles only took on clients he liked. That usually means people who don't like you."

That means he is staring at a list of people who hate him. He recognises a majority of the names here; public figures and rich media moguls. He could pass the list onto his security and the safety of mutant-kind would sky rocket.

Yet he rolls over, his hands forming fists beneath the pillows, and tries to talk himself out of it.

*

He takes a power nap during his lunch break, but it doesn't make him feel remotely better - so by the time he goes home at the end of the day his shoulders are aching and he wants nothing more than to sink into an extremely hot bath. If he's lucky, he'll be able to find something trashy and mindless to read before he goes to sleep. On second thought, he might skip the whole thing and head straight for the 'sleep' part of the equation.

The elevator doors slide open and he steps onto his landing - and abruptly realises that his plans for the evening are utterly useless.

Charles is leaning against the wall outside his door.

His footsteps falter. Charles looks as tired as Erik feels, and there is a bolt of tension through his body that robs him of his usual open ease. There is no part of his mind that is equipped to deal with this sight. Charles exists in the fantasy world of the Manor, or in the dusty corners of Oxford. Here, he is bursting his way forcefully into reality.

Erik only allows himself to falter for a moment before he carries on walking forward. "We're supposed to have a guard downstairs," he says. "Do I want to know how you got past him?"

Corruption, charm or telepathy, none of the options will calm him. He'll have to make sure the poor man is fired. Lax security isn't an option.

"You visited Clive," Charles says, ignoring Erik's question as if he had never spoken. He pushes himself away from the wall, his eyes searching Erik's face for something he can't seem to find. "Why would you do that?"

There is a heavy sense of betrayal and disappointment in his voice rather than anger. Erik hates him for it.

"Research," he answers loftily. He flicks his fingers. Behind Charles's back, the lock of the door slides open. "Shall we take this inside?"

Charles walks through the open door before Erik. Erik would have liked to see him marvel at the size of the apartment or the clean cream carpet or the spotless surfaces, but with the old-fashioned decor of the Manor in mind he can't imagine that is on the cards. The knotted tension of Charles's shoulders also suggests that he isn't likely to be in the mood for complimenting anything that Erik owns or is. Pity.

"Well?" Charles demands once they're inside - as much as Charles is capable of 'demanding' anything. It still comes out as a polite request. "I'd like an explanation."

"There isn't much to say. I thought it was best to investigate your background before pursuing you further." Erik knows that he should be more apologetic than this; he _knows_ this, and yet his heels dig in and his pride bursts forth. "You're a security risk. How could I justify allowing you near the government without ensuring I could trust you?"

"So you tracked down a past client by interrogating my sister, and went to question him alone," Charles summarises. "If you were truly worried about me as a security risk you would have referred the case to the relevant authorities instead of digging around by yourself. Please, Erik - don't treat me like an idiot."

Erik runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, calming himself down. He won't shout at Charles; he won't allow this to escalate. He won't.

"I've known you for five years, yet it's only in the last month that I've started to learn anything about you. You'll have to excuse me for being on edge," he answers. "You've hardly proven trust-worthy."

Charles seems to be practically vibrating with tension. They stand in the broad, blank expanse of Erik's apartment and stare at each other, the air filled with discomfort. This isn't how Erik had ever imagined it would go if he managed to get Charles into his home. His fantasies had involved rather less clothes and rather more smiling.

"What precisely have I done that makes me so untrust-worthy?" Charles asks after a pause during which he seems to struggle to find his tongue. His blue eyes are wide with an emotion Erik can't name. It's like staring down a wounded dog. "I've never done a thing to hurt you."

Erik would argue otherwise, thinking of his black moods and crushed hopes during the long weeks in which he had been forced to wait for little more than a glimpse of Charles - but that is hardly Charles's doing. "You hid your involvement in the HMA from me," he says, taking the easier explanation. "You must've done so for a reason."

"Yes. I rather like not being in prison," Charles answers, his accent more clipped than ever. The words strike like a blow.

Erik can't help but wonder what might have happened if he had sent the nation's finest after Charles; he wonders if Charles's apparent devotion to non-violence and his claimed restraint with his ability would have applied even in such a case. There's a part of him that longs to find out.

"I have never had any intention of imprisoning you," Erik sighs. Such a flare for the dramatic - he wonders if it's something that all whores have or if it's just Charles. "I'm sure you know that already."

"What is it that you hate most about me?" Charles asks abruptly, his arms outstretched in frustration for a fleeting moment. "The HMA, my mutation or my former profession?"

"I could never hate your mutation. Don't be ridiculous."

"But the rest?"

The notion of hating anything about Charles has never truly occurred to him before. Charles has frustrated and irritated him with his ridiculous beliefs and habits, but never anything stronger than that. "I don't hate you," he informs him stiffly.

"You've met Clive; he's hardly a fan of mine any more." Charles places the heel of his hand against his forehead, his fingers curling near his scalp. Erik wants to close the space between them and rub away all of the tension with the pads of his fingers. "This is what happens, you see. As soon as you people find out anything about me, the fantasy is broken. I'm no longer what you want me to be."

"I want you to be yourself," Erik insists. "And I am nothing like Clive. I would never have..."

He wants to say that he would never have treated Charles as an object to be bought; he would never have bid on him in a damn auction. Yet - "It's nothing you haven't done with all the consorts in the Manor already," Charles finishes, before Erik can even follow the thought through.

"I thought you were going to stay out my head."

"When you learn to turn off your hearing, I'll learn to stop catching stray thoughts," Charles promises. "In the meantime, you'll have to allow me some leeway. Telepathy is more complicated than you think."

Erik has little doubt about that. Every mutation is individual and unique; even those with the same end result can work in different ways.

"Then what happens from here?" Erik asks, "Providing that I can overcome your short-comings and that you can stand to be with a supposed megalomaniac and a bigot, of course." He manages not to roll his eyes as he quotes various insults he's had flung at himself over the years.

Charles's surprise is so sharp that he seems to double-take. "I have no idea," he answers. "God, Erik, you tracked down one of my clients. How on earth am I supposed to trust you?"

"You're a telepath. How on earth could you _not_ trust me?"

Charles frowns, and Erik gets the impression that he is missing the point. He remains purposefully obtuse, and waits for a response. Charles wavers, empty moments hanging in the air - and, damn it, that is enough. He looks too tempting when he's off-guard like this, with a thoughtful frown on his face and his pink lips twisted in frustration.

Erik closes the space between them in long strides and places a hand on Charles's jaw, steadying him as he leans down to kiss him, mouth to mouth. Charles's lips are liquid beneath him, frozen at first before he melts with a sigh against Erik's mouth. Erik's hands cup Charles's face as he pushes deeper, exposing Charles beneath him. It isn't like the first kiss; it isn't painfully chaste or fully under Charles's control. This one is _his_. He kisses him to wipe away every trace of clients like Clive, to drown out all of those who have come before.

And, hell, when Charles kisses him back it's nearly enough to undo him - the sensation of Charles alive under his hands and responsive to his attention. Charles's hands rest on his chest, his fingers stroking Erik's skin through the wool of his turtle-neck, while he opens up and lets Erik in.

It's unreal, the way that Charles feels against him. Erik forgets what they had been arguing about; he forgets that they can't trust each other and that Charles is a damned humanitarian idiot. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the willing heat of Charles's mouth and Charles's neat, compact body beneath his hands.

He's not letting this go. He's waited for years, so many long years of watching and wanting without being able to touch. Now Charles is here and it's all happening - it's all truly happening. He's not used to getting what he wants in his personal life. It puts him into free-fall. One hand slides down from Charles's jaw to skim over his neck and onto his slim shoulder. More. He needs more of this. He's done with waiting.

With clumsy haste he guides Charles through his apartment, trading kiss after kiss in parched desperation until they hit his couch. It's a large monstrosity that easily takes the pair of them. Charles lounges on the white leather and Erik crawls after him, straddling Charles's lap without breaking the contact between their lips even once.

Charles's breath is hot against his mouth as he pants for air under their shared assault. He moans when Erik presses him back firmly against the back of the couch and Erik swallows every second of the sound, drinking it down eagerly. He wants Charles to make that sound forever; he wants him to be in constant, open pleasure at all times, because it seems to be the only way to make them stop arguing.

He needs it, badly; after so long waiting and wanting, he can't waste time with petty arguments. This will do. The touch of Charles's skin is enough to push aside any other matters for now. He pulls Charles's white shirt out of his trousers, leaving it to hang loosely while his hand creeps underneath onto the heated nirvana of Charles's bare skin. His fingertips skim up Charles's sides and then down his stomach again, barely daring to press too hard in case Charles shatters into pieces beneath him or fades into fantasy.

He allows the pressure of their kiss to ease up, leaving Charles's mouth behind with one last nip to his bottom lip. Pulling back, his gaze travels downwards while he peels open the buttons of Charles's shirt; he takes his time with them, because even if he is determined to have eternity with Charles they still only have one first time together. It needs to be better and stronger and brighter than anything else Charles has ever experienced.

Erik knows he must have a lot to live up to.

He is transfixed the moment that Charles's shirt is opened, the spread material hanging loosely by his flanks. He has caught glimpses of Charles shirtless before, lucky snatched moments, but it does not even begin to compare to the rush of having Charles exposed only for _him_. He has waited for this moment; he has earned it.

"Erik," Charles sighs.

He runs his hand down the centre of Charles's chest, his fingernails dragging over terribly pale skin. He can feel the thump of Charles's heartbeat beneath his palm, loud and alive. It's enchanting. He pushes his hand further down, between them, to cup and hold the bulge in Charles's trousers, the hardness that proves Erik isn't the only one that needs this.

"Erik," Charles says again, as if he is trying to get his attention - as if he hasn't realised that he has every speck of it. "I think we should talk first."

Erik bites back a frustrated groan. When they talk, these days they argue. It isn't worth it. "I'll pay you anything you want," he promises with only a brief glance up to Charles's face. His bare skin, his chest, that is all that he wants to look at right now. He's done with waiting, done with talking. He wants to touch him and taste him and put their mouths to far better use than talking. "Please, Charles."

He reaches out for Charles's belt, but his hands freeze before he manages to close the distance. Everything stops - he can't move a muscle.

"Did you really just offer to pay me?" Charles sighs.

Erik had barely noticed himself saying it, too lost in what he wanted, but the weary disappointment painted over Charles's voice says that it had been a bad idea. He can't move his jaw in order to speak; he is motionless on top of Charles, a frozen statue.

His body levers itself off of Charles, sitting down on the couch beside him before the control abruptly comes back to him like warmth rushing through his limbs. His fingers twitch at he flexes them and gets used to his body being his own again. His heart is pounding.

"I'm sorry," Charles says, looking down as he hurriedly closes every button that Erik had peeled open. "I shouldn't have come here. This was a terrible idea."

"Charles, please don't be an idiot," Erik snaps - and maybe he shouldn't be so sharp, or shouldn't allow himself to be angry, but Charles has just been in his head. Charles had yanked him around like a puppet. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"You offered to pay me," Charles repeats. "Don't you have any idea how insulting that is?"

"Insulting? You own a brothel, Charles. I don't think you have a lot of moral high ground to stand on."

Charles finishes buttoning his shirt with a scowl on his face; it isn't an expression that suits him, and Erik wants to curse himself for putting it there. He can hardly make sense of what he wants any more, torn between fury at the way Charles had controlled him and the desperate desire to make it up to him. His hands curl uselessly.

"Charles, be reasonable. Calm down. You wanted to talk, didn't you?"

"I'm not going to do this," Charles states. "I am sorry, but this is a truly terrible idea." Charles stands up. With Erik still tense on the couch, it's probably the only time or way that Charles can ever be taller than him.

"You're running away. You're hiding; that's what the HMA do, all of you." They had complained at the sidelines of the human-mutant war without any of them raising a finger to fight for either side - and even now they hide away, refusing to reveal their identities. It's cowardly, and now it's taking Charles away from him. Erik tells himself that it is that, not his own actions, that are to blame. He tells that to himself so that he doesn't have to apologise, so that he doesn't have to accept responsibility. "Sit down. Don't be a coward."

"I worry about you when I hear your thoughts, Erik," Charles confesses. "You are so angry - so hurt. The War is over, my friend. You can relax; try to live again. Try to learn what that is like."

"You sound like you're saying goodbye to me." He hates how tense his voice is - he hates that Charles, the brilliant idiot, can make him sound like that. It isn't right.

"I want you to find someone," Charles states. "Someone that is good, and decent, and uncomplicated. I'd recommend avoiding falling for madams in the future. We're more trouble than we're worth, truly." He cracks a smile that is one of the most painful things that Erik has ever seen.

He wants to grab hold of Charles and shake him, crush him, kiss him, until he comes to his senses. Everything is crumbling away from him, when only moments ago Charles had been pliant beneath him, ready and willing. Words had been all it had taken to crush that. Foolish words.

He reaches out to take hold of Charles's wrist. His long fingers enclose it easily, trapping him like a dog on a leash. "Stay here," he instructs, while wondering how Charles managed to turn this situation around so neatly: earlier this week, both before and after his visit to Clive, he had been trying to decide for himself how to trust Charles enough to allow him back into his life. By cutting off that possibility, it is as if all of the other issues cease to matter. "Damn it, Charles, what I am supposed to say?"

Charles reaches out with his uncaptured hand to stroke his hand along Erik's jaw. "I won't be with someone that thinks of me as a whore. It isn't fair to either of us."

Erik doesn't give a damn about fairness and he doesn't think of Charles as a _whore_ \- he's well aware that he has turned his back on the profession. He'd have had him on his back a long time ago otherwise, and maybe that would have been better for them both.

Charles gifts a gentle kiss against his lips, soft and lingering. Erik surges against him, as if Charles will stay as long as he makes it worth his while.

And then, between one breath and the next, Charles is gone.

Erik blinks, suddenly alone in his apartment. The sulfurous smell of a teleporter is absent; he can't blame this one on Azazel.

A glance at the clock tells him that he has lost ten minutes.

Charles has trapped him here for ten minutes of his lost life. Erik leans forward, head falling into his hands, and decides to crush all the spoons in his cutlery drawer until he feels better.

*

As it turns out, spoon-crushing is not an acceptable response to emotional trauma. It doesn't help, not remotely. It only leaves him with a mild sense of guilt when he looks at the jagged blobs that used to be useful (and if anyone tries to make a metaphor of that he thinks he might kill them).

If he had any friends, this would be a good time to call them. They could get drunk together and curse Charles's name and then perhaps, after enough drinks, he could sob into his beer and drunk-dial Charles a few dozen times. It's tempting to fake inebriation for an excuse to phone him: he won't do it sober. Charles controlled him. Whatever reasons he may have had, that is unacceptable.

Instead of friends, he has a colleague. Azazel is the closest thing that he has to someone he trusts.

When he calls him, he hardly knows what to say. "I may have made a mistake," he says, but that hardly seems to cover the situation. He isn't the only one in the wrong here; with Charles in his mind, in his very actions, Erik would say that he is the victim of the piece. "Are you free tonight?"

In the background, he can hear a woman's voice. He refuses to feel guilty. "I'll be there in five minutes," Azazel promises.

Five minutes is a terribly extended period of time for a teleporter, but considering the short notice Erik won't hold a grudge. He spends the time pacing around his apartment and flexing his hands, moving all that he can to prove to himself that he is the one in control of his limbs. Charles is gone.

That's a good thing.

Really, it is.

It's the best possible thing in the world, because now he doesn't have to worry about his own bodily autonomy. If Charles has cut him off for his own idiotic reasons, all temptation is removed. He nods in determination.

With a burst of red swirls, Azazel appears as he'd been summoned - but his hair is askew and the top few buttons of his shirt remain open. He's also not alone: Mystique is with him.

Erik blinks a few times, and wonders if Charles has done some permanent damage to his brain. "Well," he says, "this is unexpected."

"I thought you might need my help," Mystique says, striding forward. She looks around the apartment, her skin a beautiful contrast to its cream tones. "The mistake you made: something to do with Charles?"

He frowns. "Perhaps it's a political matter."

"Is it?" Azazel asks, wearing a frown to match Erik's.

"That's hardly the point." He isn't sure what the point is, actually. He's not even sure if he has one any more. He groans. "It's Charles."

"Unsurprising," Mystique mutters.

"He came here. He..." He shifts uncomfortably - he doesn't want to admit that he offered to pay him. While he doesn't have a great deal of experience in the field of dating, he knows enough to understand that it isn't customary to try to buy your way into someone's pants. "He controlled me with his mutation."

There is, he'll admit, a great deal of delight in seeing Mystique's eyes widen to almost cartoonish levels. "Are you sure?" she asks. "Why?"

"I lost ten minutes of time. One second he was here and the next he wasn't. I don't know what he did while I was unaware."

He imagines that all Charles did was keep him mindless and docile while he left the building - yet there are other more sinister possibilities, if Charles had been willing to exploit them. If Charles knew how to fight a war or how to treat his enemies, the HMA might actually be a force to be reckoned with.

"Is there anything in your apartment he could have been after?" Azazel asks.

"Wait a second," Mystique insists. "This is Charles. If he was any more honourable, he'd be royalty." Mystique says it in a way that makes it sound like a flaw. Erik is inclined to believe her. "He wouldn't use his ability on someone without good reason. Were you two fighting?"

"Not exactly," Erik answers. "We were... bickering. Nothing different from usual."

It had been roughly the same argument as always: distrust and polar opposite beliefs. There had been some physical contact involved this time, rather pleasant as far as Erik is concerned, but nothing more than that. Another pointless drama - it makes trying to be with Charles feel like an obstacle course that spans over entire continents. How can anything be worth this much trouble?

Mystique's eyes narrow as she watches him. He struggles not to squirm. "What did you do?" she asks him in a way that implies he might get a kick to the face if he gives her an answer she doesn't like. "Erik. What did you do?"

"Nothing," he snaps. Her eyes narrow further. "I may have accidentally offered to pay him for his services, but it's really nothing to cause a fuss about. He's overreacting."

Azazel gives a huff of air. His tail swishes as he moves towards one of Erik's couches, lounging with his arms spread wide. "I am not a relationship counsellor," he says. "But I believe that paying your partner for sex is frowned upon."

"He's not my partner." He barely knows the man. He isn't sure if he should still even want to know him.

Mystique strides over to the couch to join Azazel, swinging her feet into his lap. His hands close around them, red over blue. "We brought you two together so you could be a good influence on him," Mystique reminds him. "It's become more complicated than we thought."

It's hardly his fault that Charles is the most irritatingly complicated mutant on Earth.

Nor, for that matter, is it Erik's fault that his match-makers are sadistic cretins.

Watching the pair of them, Erik has the unfortunate feeling that he may be rather doomed.

*

Mystique and Azazel spend most of the evening talking to each other and laughing at Erik, which is a wholly unacceptable use of their time. Yet scowling at them keeps his thoughts occupied enough that he doesn't feel the need to crawl towards Charles and beg for forgiveness. It should be happening the other way around; Charles should be there to grovel and beg at his feet.

Three days later, however, it is becoming increasingly clear that Charles isn't the grovelling sort.

Erik glares at the papers on his desk as he tries to wade his way through the work that is building up around him. There is a headache pounding near his temples, a product of too much stress and not enough sleep. It hardly matters. There were long nights during the war when sleep was a distant memory. He survived that; he'll survive some boring reports as well.

His tired eyes are slipping closed as his head begins to nod, dipping gradually towards the desk. The door to his office opens abruptly and he straightens up, his eyes as wide as coins. He clears his throat, but relaxes when he sees that it is only one of the secretaries with a package for him.

She places it on his desk and leaves with a polite smile. Just as well: it means that she doesn't have to see the predator-sharp grin that comes onto his face.

He knows exactly what this package ought to contain. He had ordered it right after his last encounter with Charles.

They've rushed it through production for him, and he feels a giddy sense of anticipation in his gut as he summons a set of scissors to his hand and slices open the tape holding the box shut.

Inside, waiting for him, is the helmet that will keep his mind and his thoughts safe and secure. He reaches inside and lifts it away from the safety packaging; the material glints under his office lighting, a shining, deep red. With ridges and sleek curves, it shines like a well-oiled piece of machinery.

He lifts it high and places it over his head, where it slides down far enough to even obscure his cheeks. It blocks out his peripheral vision and dulls the sounds that can reach his ears: on a regular battlefield, he would be as clumsy as a medieval knight. For his own situation, it is perfect.

With such a feat of science protecting him, he can finally meet Charles on his own terms.

*

 

Erik spends rather more time than he would care to admit to strutting around his office in his helmet, feeling newly powerful and triumphant. He examines his reflection in the mirror mounted on the wall and thinks that he looks regal. He feels ready for anything with his thoughts tucked away into the helmet.

Unfortunately, a pile of reports still waits for him on his desk.

He's doing his very best to ignore them, but it isn't working too well.

Before long, he has to shed the helmet and slump back to his seat as if it has never been delivered. Between putting it on and taking it off, he feels no different; it would seem, then, that Charles has no long-term control over him, affecting his thoughts and actions. There is no way to blame all of his past thoughts and actions on Charles's mutated manipulation. It's a shame, in a way. That would at least have been a simple explanation.

He clears his throat and picks up the next report, forcing a frown of focus onto his face and trying to take in what is written on the page.

When the words register, his spine straightens and he begins to legitimately pay attention. It is the regular monthly report that he receives from his Department of Security. Most of the time, he skim-reads through the thing and allows Azazel to handle any relevant issues that have appeared; there is so rarely anything going on that requires his attention, and breaking up cliques of discontented humans is beneath him at this point.

This report is different.

It mentions making progress on their investigations into the Human Mutant Alliance, for a start.

He flicks forward to the relevant pages, and feels his heart begin to hammer. _With due caution, we are currently undertaking an undercover mission into The Xavier Manor to gather intelligence on this matter._

The Manor. They've discovered that the Manor is far more than a simple licensed brothel - it's more than that, much more.

Uncovering Charles is only one step beyond that.

He should allow it. Charles is untrustworthy and dangerous. He deserves to be caught by the proper authorities - he deserves whatever is coming to him. Erik should sit back and watch it; more than that, perhaps he ought to make the Department of Security's job easier by informing them on what he knows. He could very easily point them in the right direction.

Just the thought of it makes a headache start to form. His government has no legal right to prosecute a person simply for heading up a rival organisation - but there are loopholes to that, of course. It would be all too easy to find a way to incriminate Charles and take him off of the streets; by taking him out of play, the entire world would be much safer.

He shakes his head and reaches for his phone. As much as he'll regret warning Charles, sitting back and doing nothing simply isn't an option.

*

Warning Charles, of course, would be a lot easier if he would answer his damn phone.

*

When he resorts to calling the Manor, it is Moira that answers. She seems startled at the sound of his voice - it's a long way from her usual, smooth way of greeting him.

"I'm afraid the owner of the establishment has advised that we recommend that satisfy yourself elsewhere," she says. "The Hellfire Club has a wonderful reputation."

Erik holds the phone hard against his ear, and tries to convince himself that throttling Charles when he gets a hold of him would not be productive. "Are you trying to tell me that Charles has barred me?" he translates.

"We wouldn't put it quite in those terms," Moira says.

It's the closest answer he's going to get to a 'yes'.

"Where is he?" he sighs. Charles could be half-way across the world, but it doesn't matter. "This is important."

He has to give up on getting any answers out of Moira - annoyingly loyal, that one - and gets in touch with Mystique instead. She turns out to be more interested in teasing him about his romantic failures than in revealing Charles's location. He could tell her the news; he could simply ask her to pass on the warning and his responsibility here would be done.

He holds his tongue. He wants to deliver this message _himself_.

He wants Charles to know that he can be a good man - a decent one, at least.

When Mystique eventually gives him what he needs to know, he sends Azazel after him - with the assurance that it is a life-or-death situation, and that he certainly wouldn't ask Azazel to kidnap anyone for anything less. The unimpressed scowl on Azazel's face implies that he may not actually believe him.

Moments later, Erik is pacing back and forth in his office with his helmet planted securely on his head. It doesn't make him feel as secure as he would have expected; it's never been tested out on a telepath like Charles before. There _are_ no other telepaths like Charles.

Azazel passes in and out like a split-second storm, depositing Charles in his office but not staying around to witness the consequences. Charles is still clutching an unmarked essay, with a red pen in his other hand. Startled, he shouts in alarm - and that alarm doesn't seem to abate once he realises where he is or who he is with.

"I didn't think I'd see you again so soon," he says - and, even now, he manages to sound genial. Erik can't even trust the tone of his voice. Charles's gaze flicks up to his helmet. "What on Earth is that on your head?"

Erik taps his fingers against his temple through the protection shield. "Something to keep you out," he says. It's quite a delight to see the narrowing of concentration on Charles's face, followed by the frown of frustration; it's something real, for once. "Just a precaution, you understand."

"Of course," Charles agrees amicably. "I assume I'll be furnished with something to neutralise your mutation as well."

"You have my word," Erik promises - that ought to be enough.

Charles sighs in a way that seems to imply that it isn't, before he shakes his head as if answering a question nobody has asked yet. "Let's get on with it, then," he says wearily, closing what little distance remains between them.

Erik doesn't have a chance to ask what exactly they are about to 'get on with' before Charles drops fluidly to his knees before him. It's a practised move, one that he must have done a thousand times - the sight of it makes Erik feel light-headed with _need_. He feels as if he's in someone else's body as he watches Charles place his papers on the floor before reaching for his belt and starting to undo it.

God, he could allow this. He could lean back and allow Charles to put that pretty mouth of his to work, could sink his fingers into his hair and slide his cock all the way inside until Charles moans and chokes as he comes. He's half-hard already.

He is grateful for the helmet, because it stops Charles from knowing how very close he is to letting him go ahead.

His hands slide around Charles's wrists and he holds him still, stopping him from going any further. "I didn't bring you here for that," he says softly.

Charles looks up at him, and the sight of him is nearly enough to destroy all of Erik's resolve. His eyes are so blue and uncertain, while his lips are the very colour of temptation. How many times over the years has he thought about this exact image? He could keep Charles as his personal consort, keep him well-paid and content and his, only his. Fate is utterly determined to test him.

"Up you get," he coaxes, helping Charles back to his feet. A pink tinge starts to colour Charles's cheeks - and he watches Erik as if he's expecting an attack at any moment. It's a long way from the relaxed and relaxing figure Erik had first met. "I need to talk to you - that's all."

"I see," Charles replies uncertainly. "You didn't seem too keen on talking last time we met."

"Neither did you. You seemed more interested in controlling my mind." Erik lets go of Charles's wrists and ambles back towards his desk, needing to put some distance and some furniture between them before he can think clearly. "I brought you here because there's a problem. My people are investigating the Manor. As idiotic as they clearly are, it won't be long until they find you."

Charles frowns. "They're 'your people'. What are you trying to say?"

"I'm not threatening you, if that's what you think." He has far more direct methods of doing so. "I should, after all you've done, but I'm not. They're going to find a way to arrest you."

"I've done nothing illegal," Charles protests.

Erik does little more than smile. "Do you think that would stop them?"

Charles shakes his head mutely; it occurs to Erik how different he is without the crutch of his mutation to lean on during their interactions. He's more likely to be caught unaware, and more likely to be at a loss for what to say. Erik finds that he likes him like this.

"I'm giving you advanced warning," he says. "Be on guard, and be careful. Once they've found you there might not be a lot I can do."

"The illusion of power," Charles says, with a dry laugh that sounds utterly unamused. "Everyone has their limits."

"I have more than most," Erik admits - because for all that he sits atop the world, he is not alone there. There is a wide bureaucracy that keeps him in place. There are days when he thinks that the simplest mail clerk has more power within this government than he does. "I don't want to see anything happen to you."

Charles watches him doubtfully. "Are you sure about that?" he asks.

It's a decent question. After what Charles has done to him, Erik ought to want his head on a platter and his organisation dismantled. He's dangerous.

Yet he shakes his head. "I don't trust you, but I don't hate you," he admits. He thinks it would take a great deal indeed to make him turn his back on Charles altogether. It would be mentally closing a door on five years of pining.

"Thank you," Charles says. "For warning me. For..."

He doesn't know what Charles would finish that with, but he nods all the same, as if he understands. Around Charles, he still doesn't feel as if he understands a damn thing. War was so easy compared to what he's been left with.

Charles leaves and Erik doesn't have the words to stop him - he is merely left alone in his office, feeling smaller and more useless than before.

*

The very next morning, Azazel has left a copy of _Time_ magazine on his desk.

There is a picture of Charles on the front, and a promise of the first revealing interview with the HMA's leader. Going public: if Charles is arrested after this, or if he disappears altogether, there is no way that suspicion won't land on the Brotherhood.

They can't touch him without incriminating themselves.

Erik smirks, flicks through the magazine, and devours all he can.

*

He learns, through throw-away comments and anecdotes, that Charles had been heavily involved in student politics and that he spent his teenage years advocating for sex workers' rights.

There has been a brothel in the Xavier family line since 1612, when an enterprising young woman allowed prostitutes to rent out the rooms above her bakery, apparently counting even King James among their clients. Humble beginnings, but it had taken seed once she had married into a much richer family - and had taken her good business sense with her.

"I believe in equality. It's something my father cherished above all, and that's stayed with me through all my life," Charles says on Page Three. Two paragraphs down it is reported that Charles's father died during the war, fighting on the side of the humans.

His undergraduate dissertation had been on the impact of the X-gene on the genetic risk factors for heart disease. His post-graduate studies focused instead on the wider medical differences between mutants and humans, finding few consistent trends between the two supposed groups. The article rather over-labours the importance of Charles's findings, in Erik's view.

And Page Six of the interview claims that Charles has, reputedly, watched _Beauty and the Beast_ at least two dozen times.

Erik isn't sure if that last titbit is quite as important as the rest. He makes a mental note to watch the film anyway.

*

The entire building seems to be besieged by journalists for the rest of the day, all of them wanting to know what Lehnsherr's government's reaction to the unveiling of the HMA is going to be. Erik does not have the faintest clue what the government's reaction ought to be, but he doesn't think that his own amused glee is appropriate.

"We've arranged a press conference for our official response," Azazel informs him. "It seemed better than fielding enquiries individually."

Erik groans anyway. "I hate my job," he complains.

Azazel, whose job description ranges from vice-leader to mutant taxi, does little more than arch an eyebrow at him. It says enough.

*

"I would like to reiterate that the HMA is not classified as a terrorist organisation. My government sees them as peaceful protesters. I hope that Xavier's dramatic unveiling today might help to push them towards adult politics. They've hidden in the shadows for too long - open debate rather than childish tactics is what is required for the good of the country. With cooperation and conversation, we might even be able to reach an understanding," Erik says into the microphone, his hand curled on top of the podium - but not bunched into a fist. He's been told that makes him look too aggressive.

He takes question after question and gives answers that all sound the same to him:  
\- No, I don't plan on having Mr Xavier arrested.  
\- No, my government is not going to declare war on the HMA's headquarters.  
\- No, my new helmet is not merely a fashion statement.

He finds these events a terrible bore.

He wonders if crushing all of the constantly flashing cameras might liven things up a little, but beside him Azazel is a disapproving presence - probably wouldn't be a good idea, then. _Damn._

*

It's past midnight before he gets home. He's starving, yet there's nothing in his fridge but an out-of-date carton of milk. He closes the door with a dejected sigh and makes his way aimlessly through his apartment instead, restless despite the time.

He checks his cell phone absently, a newfangled thing to replace the last one he broke. He still hasn't worked out exactly how it works, but it's easy enough to read the message on the front: _Four Missed Calls._

When he works out how to navigate his phone's settings, he discovers that they're from Charles, all four. His stomach floods with butterflies - big fucking things, violent, like moths with a grudge. He doesn't have his helmet with him here, yet this very couch is where it all happened. This couch is where he made the stupid mistake of trying to buy his way into Charles's pants, and it's also the place where Charles slid into his mind and took over so easily.

Staring down at his phone, Erik remembers all of Charles's reassurances that he doesn't use his powers unless it's absolutely required; he compares that to the feeling of seeing his limbs move like a puppet's, or the missing ten minutes Charles had taken from him. Those are not the actions of someone who only uses his ability cautiously - he can't trust Charles, not with such a powerful mutation at his fingertips.

He needs to block him out. As the leader of the Brotherhood and the leader of the HMA, their relationship should remain purely professional and political. Anything else would be incredibly foolish.

He calls him anyway.

The phone rings and rings and _rings_ until eventually Charles answers with a mumble that doesn't sound like any word Erik recognises.

"Did I wake you?" Erik asks, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice.

Charles clears his throat. "It's five a.m. here."

"I can call back later, if you'd like."

"No, no. I'm awake. I'm not wholly coherent, but I _am_ awake." He hears shuffling movement in the background and the sound of Charles's yawning - he tries not to feel too inconsiderate for not working out where Charles would be. The man moves around so frequently that it is impossible to ever guess where he might be. "How are you?"

 _How am I?_ Erik takes the phone from his ear and frowns at it in frustration. "I'm fine," he says uncertainly. "Yourself?"

"Tired. I've been jousting with journalists all day. Are they always so demanding?"

"Most of the time, yes," Erik confirms. He could easily fall into a conversation with Charles, talking about the trials of being public figures now that Charles has joined him in the media spotlight, but there's too much lurking in the background. "I had quite a few missed calls from you. Is there something you needed to talk about?"

"Not in particular," Charles admits. Erik doesn't say anything, waiting for an explanation instead. "I thought it might be a good idea to try to talk over the phone. This way, you don't have to worry about me invading your mind and I don't have to worry about... well, everything else."

Erik's eyes narrow as he searches for the trick in Charles's words; there must be one. "Why?"

"Pardon?"

"Why do you want to talk to me?" He doesn't mean to sound quite so self-deprecating, yet the mystery remains.

"You warned me that my identity had been discovered. Let's say that won you back some brownie points." He can hear Charles's sad little smile through the line. "For all that you have terrible taste in head-gear, I don't think you're a particularly bad man."

"Why does everyone keep making fun of my helmet?" Erik grouses. "It's functional."

"It's rather ridiculous."

"It's your fault that I have to wear it," Erik complains. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking that he's far too tired to make it through this conversation. "I can't make sense of this, Charles - of _you_. I don't know what you want from me."

Charles hums in agreement. "That feeling is mutual, if it makes you feel any more secure."

"It doesn't," Erik says. "You've been in my mind. You have a head-start."

"Not as much as you'd think," Charles disagrees. "You're..." He sighs. "I can never tell with you. I don't know if you just want to have sex with me or if it's something more. If it's the former, I can't pursue this."

"You don't have sex any more?" Erik asks. He sounds rather scandalised.

Charles chuckles. "Nothing quite so dramatic. I don't indulge casually, however," he says. "You'll find that ten years as a professional rather dampens your enthusiasm for casual sex."

"I can imagine," Erik agrees. He takes a deep breath. "No sex, then. I can handle that."

For the time being, certainly, and it is much easier to accept while he isn't having to look at Charles and see his tempting blue eyes or those ridiculously lush lips.

"Excellent," Charles says - and, this time, the smile that Erik can hear is genuinely relieved. Something releases in the centre of his chest, like a knot that has been holding everything tense. He swings his legs up onto the couch and stretches out, placing his head on the arm-rest. "So how was your day?" Charles asks, as if they are casual friends catching up.

It makes Erik feel painfully comfortable.

They complain to each other about inane interview questions, and Erik admits to reading Charles's magazine interview far more times than was necessary. "There's a lot I don't know about you," he says.

"We'd better see if we can fix that, then," Charles suggests.

It feels wonderfully like progress.


	4. Chapter 4

He calls Charles or Charles calls him once a day, usually in the early evening for him and around midnight for Charles. Depending on how busy or tired they are, they can talk for anything from five minutes to several hours.

The sad thing is that it's the highlight of his day.

The saddest thing is that he really doesn't give a damn how pathetic that makes him.

*

"It's my turn for a question," Erik insists, after explaining why he doesn't generally bother with movies, that he'd much prefer a good book. _It doesn't have to be an either/or situation_ , Charles had laughed. _You can indulge in both, I swear_. "Will you tell me something about your childhood?"

"What do you want to do know?"

"Anything, really." Everything, damn it. "Anything you're willing to tell me."

There's a shallow pause on the other end of the line. Erik shifts where he is lying on the couch, and rearranges the position of his legs.

"I grew up in the Manor," Charles says eventually, as if the words are being ripped from him. "The east wing is the residential area. It's out of bounds to clients, but I still saw them out in the grounds occasionally." He pauses again, but Erik doesn't interrupt. He's found, over the span of several phone calls, that the best way to get the most out of Charles is to give him the time to work through it all himself. "I was eight when the war started; eighteen when it ended. My father left early on - he wanted to talk things through; he was convinced that people would listen to reason."

"Few ever do," Erik murmurs.

"He wouldn't have agreed with you. Sometimes I think that maybe if I had gone with him..." Charles breathes out slowly. "My mutation had already manifested. I could have made them listen to him."

"Do you think you could have saved him?" Erik asks curiously.

"Thousands of people died in the war, not only my father," Charles says. "With a few well-placed instructions to listen, I could have saved most of them - maybe all of them."

"What about mental autonomy?" Erik asks. "Perhaps the war was essential for the progress of humankind."

"Try explaining that to a child who's just lost his father."

"I lost my parents as well," he admits. He doesn't speak about them often; these days, he tries to avoid even thinking about them. It's easier than he's comfortable with. "When the Brotherhood was under Shaw's leadership, he spoke of cleansing and personal sacrifice. I didn't realise what he meant at the time."

The phone line between them is as dangerous as piano wire; Erik wants Charles _there_ , wants to feel his gentle hands soothing him as they talk. He doesn't think he would be able to say any of this with another person in the room, however. With just the phone pressed to his ear, it is almost as if he is admitting it only to himself, to the air around him.

"What happened?" Charles prompts gently.

"Shaw decided it would be best to cut our ties to humanity, for those of us in his inner circle; he thought that was what had been holding us back all that time." The war had been under way for years before Erik had been old enough to join up. He'd waited, had felt the cause thrumming beneath his skin - and all of it had been perverted by one power-mad leader. They'd nearly lost everything. He _had_ lost everything. "They were dead before any of us worked out what he was doing."

He can still remember how it had felt when it had dawned on him, the gnawing horror, the bile that had risen in his throat, while Shaw smiled like a benevolent father and assured his people that it was all for the best - it had to be done, for the greater good.

"You killed him," Charles says quietly. "You ended the war."

"I didn't care about the war; I cared about my mother. He'd taken her from me and I wanted him to pay. I wanted to make sure he hurt for it. It was revenge. Everyone thinks I'm a war hero, but it wasn't about that. It wasn't about that at all."

The truth hangs between them so heavily that he wants to snatch it back and hide it away. It burns right in the centre of his chest like a freshly-caused wound; new bloodshed, new pain, it's like going through the whole thing again. He blinks and pretends his eyes aren't damp.

"Thank you, Erik," Charles murmurs. "I still think you're a hero, you know."

And, god, that's one of the funniest things that Erik has heard in years, so he laughs and laughs and if it sounds like he's sobbing then at least Charles is the only one who hears it - Charles, sweet Charles, who murmurs in his ear and calms him down until the world doesn't feel as if it's ending.

*

His eyes keep drifting closed in the meeting the next day. It was a battle to stay awake; he really has to start going to bed earlier. It isn't seemly for a leader to start falling asleep while his advisers are trying to talk to him about the welfare system.

The tip of Azazel's tail prods painfully into the small of his back. His eyes shoot open. "Yes, yes!" he agrees. "That sounds marvellous."

"It does?" the woman in front of the Power Point presentation says sceptically.

Erik clears his throat. "No?" He should have been paying attention. At this rate he's going to end up signing the Earth away without even realising what he's doing. He glances towards Azazel for help.

"We would like to see a full copy of your recommendations by the end of the day," Azazel says. "We'll get back to you on whether or not the proposal is feasible." His tail is flicking back and forward as he speaks. "We'll take a short recess. Go and stretch your legs."

The junior politicians seem happy for the break, even if the older ones complain on the way out about the waste of time. They'll be there until late into the evening at this rate, if Erik can't pull himself together.

"Don't say anything," Erik warns. "I already know."

"I wasn't going to say a thing," Azazel promises. Erik doesn't believe him for even a second.

"Out with it."

In the pause, he can hear a whole number of unvoiced criticisms, most of them coming forth from the back of his own mind. "You've been very tired recently," is what eventually comes out. "It might be wise to try to get some more sleep."

"I can't," Erik says stiffly. "I have to stay up to talk to Charles."

Which is ridiculous, truly. He's the one in the earlier time zone, so he can't even imagine what Charles must be like in the mornings. If he could just transfer Charles over here life would be much simpler. Surely leaving Oxford wouldn't be too much to ask - the HMA has been busy enough lately that it's foolish for Charles to continue to hold down a professorship anyway. He ought to focus on his political work.

He ought to focus on being near Erik, actually.

Unlikely.

Frustrating.

Damn it.

"Try to prioritise," Azazel suggests. "Do whatever it takes, just make sure you can stay awake in future."

Erik is fairly sure that he has just been scolded by one of his underlings. He is absolutely sure that he doesn't like it.

Now he simply needs to work out how to make it stop.

*

The best solution, of course, would be to ask Charles to move himself and his work and his life over here.

After less than a week of tentatively friendly phone calls, it might be a little too soon.

A more subtle method might be preferred.

*

"Are you tired?" he asks that evening.

"Currently? Not really," Charles answers, which is not exactly what he was looking for. "I could let you go if you'd like. You sound exhausted."

He stifles another yawn. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Really, Erik," Charles scolds. "How will our poor world cope if you're falling asleep on your desk?"

"This is your plan for world domination," Erik states. "I can see right through your tricks."

"Get some sleep," Charles orders affectionately. "I'll speak to you tomorrow. I have my lunch hour free if you want to phone me before work."

"I'll see what I can do." What Erik means to say is, _I would spend every minute on the phone with you if I could_. What he actually says is, "Good night then."

"Good night."

His apartment feels incredibly empty without the sound of Charles's voice. He finds that he suddenly has absolutely no urge to sleep.

*

The next day he manages to stay awake throughout all of the boring functions he has to attend. Pity, really. Sleeping through them would have been preferable.

It keeps Azazel happy, however, and it keeps the country running, so he supposes that he ought to count that as a victory. It isn't until he notices the dark storms in Riptide's eyes that it even occurs to him that anything could still be wrong.

Yet there can be little doubt that Riptide is glaring at him, which is - not exactly unusual, but still uncommon enough to be distressing.

"Riptide?" Erik prompts, pausing at his desk. "If there's something on your mind, spit it out."

He's fairly sure that he hasn't broken the man's laptop in weeks. That alone ought to merit some level of positive feeling between the pair of them, but it would appear that old wounds run deep. Riptide looks down quickly with a shake of his head, offering no explanation for his sullen mood.

Yet, once he's noticed this, he realises that Riptide is not the only one who has decided to shoot him the occasional glare or worried glance. It's practically the entire office, all of them hiding behind their computers when he's looking.

There's something here that isn't right, something that is tense and broken.

He has the uncomfortable feeling that it is, once again, going to be something bound to disrupt the tentative contentment he has found in recent days.

*

"I think I've upset the office," he admits to Charles on the phone.

"What happened?" Charles asks. In the background, Erik can hear Charles's kettle boiling. "Did you steal something from the fridge? That causes riots around here. You would hardly believe how territorial academics are about milk."

"I... What?" He pauses to think about it. "No, I don't believe I've started any milk wars."

"In that case I think you'll be fine," Charles assures him. "What do you think you've done?"

"Who says I've done anything?" Erik protests.

"Well, they must be angry with you for a reason. As irrational as people seem, everyone still follows their own thought patterns."

"I hate talking to a telepath," Erik grumbles, without meaning it for an instant. "I've been tired for the last few days. Maybe I fell asleep during someone's presentation." He doesn't think that it is anything quite so simple, but he will happily cling to any hope that he has.

"I suppose it's my fault you're so tired. I am sorry for that, Erik."

"When will you be in the States again?" Erik asks instead of accepting his apology. "Surely you must need to visit the Manor soon. Are there any further caning seminars scheduled?"

"Don't tempt me," Charles warns, with a warm promise in his voice - Erik tries very hard not to imagine getting his own private lesson, not to think of how gentle Charles might be as he taught him how to hold the cane and inflict the perfect sting. He won't think about that. He _won't_. "I'm busy here for the next few weeks. I'm giving a set of lectures to the undergrads. It's rather thrilling, to be honest."

"Oh," Erik says. He doesn't sound thrilled at all, so he clears his throat. "That is fantastic. Well done."

"Erik," Charles sighs - and he sounds as if his heart is breaking for him, as if he's kicked Erik's puppy accidentally and he wants to make it better. "I _am_ sorry for all this. But, really, I think the separation may be better for us. We're getting on better now than we ever did before, aren't we?"

"I miss your face," Erik says, throwing it out like an insult, like it's a weapon. It should hurt, because it hurts him and he's so sick of feeling weak all the time. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose and tries to tell himself that this is the kind of thing that adults have to deal with all the time - separation, long distances, infuriating telepaths. "You should be here. You can't have three jobs; it's ridiculous."

"I've managed to cope so far."

"Some people would be happy for even a single job."

"Are you trying to tell me that I should come back to the States in order to ease unemployment statistics?" Charles asks sceptically.

Erik glowers through the phone. He doesn't know if it carries or not, but he sincerely hopes that it does. "I'm saying I miss you," he snaps. "Be a gentleman and accept that."

There's a pause and a sympathetic sigh before Charles speaks. "I miss you too."

The irritation and anger fades. He thinks that Charles must be a horse whisperer or lion tamer, because surely only that could explain how a few words could calm him so easily. "Really?" he asks. He feels small and needy and insecure and he hates, he _hates_ , Charles for making him feel like that.

"Yes, really," Charles laughs. "You're an idiot and you drive me insane. I miss you."

Erik holds the phone so tightly it hurts his hand. _I've never wanted anything this much_ , he thinks. It terrifies him more than he knows how to express.

"Good luck with your lectures," he says after clearing his throat. "I mean it."

He truly does.

*

He makes it until past lunch the following day before his patience snaps and he throws his pen down on the desk in frustration. "Alright, what is it?" he demands, looking around at the trio of alarmed faces.

"Sir?"

"We're supposed to be discussing the latest climate change proposals, yet you all seem more interested in scowling at me. What's going on?"

"No one's scowling," he is assured.

He is more than experienced enough to recognise a scowl when he sees one. He does, after all, spend most of time wearing some form of the expression.

"I am scowling," Riptide admits.

Ah, Riptide. Of course.

Erik turns his gaze to him, and is pleased that the man doesn't flinch. Riptide meets his eyes without wavering - there's a tint of metallic strength in him. Erik approves. "What is it, then?" he prompts.

A long, unsteady pause. He wonders if Riptide is going to back out, but the man doesn't hide. "We've been told you're consorting with the HMA," Riptide states. "They've taken you to their side."

Erik stares at him for a few over-long moments. "That is preposterous," he says eventually.

What else is there to say? He has done more for the mutant cause than any of these worms could aspire to do; if they think he could ever turn his back on the cause then they are utter cretins.

"But you're in contact with Xavier," Riptide says. "We know."

"Perhaps I'm taking him to our side," Erik suggests. Anyone who has ever met Charles will find the idea laughable. He's unlikely to ever be converted from his beliefs; Erik isn't the only stubborn one. "My loyalty is not under question. Who's spreading these rumours?"

There is a long and awkward pause. He stares at each of them in turn and the metal in the room creaks in warning. "Well?" he prompts.

Even Riptide won't answer. He can usually be counted on for his bravery.

"Your phone records," Wanda says eventually.

"My phone records," Erik repeats, because it's difficult to summon any response to that that isn't simple mindless anger. "Who precisely has been checking my phone records?"

God, he can't even control his own government. How can he ever hope to keep the world itself under his thumb? They are wild, wicked creatures - not just humans but all beings. It's herding cats trying to make anything happen around here.

"The Department of Security. They keep an eye on everyone, don't they?"

She says it as if it is a matter of course - something to be expected, accepted and not worried about. Erik wonders what kind of world he has created if the act of spying is so natural and unremarkable. He shakes his head and takes a breath. "Meeting adjourned. We'll reschedule for another day," he sighs.

It only serves to make Riptide's frown deepen, but Erik doesn't have the energy to fight with him over it. Perhaps he is getting too old for this nonsense. He was born to be a soldier, not a ruler; the world of politics had never been part of his plan.

The room empties and he is left alone with unread proposals and dire reports. He leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling, the fluorescent light strip hurting his eyes.

Before long, the door opens and closes quietly and he hears the sound of someone joining him. He doesn't look down. The sound of those footfalls is recognisable. "I cannot leave you alone for a single meeting, can I?" Azazel says as he takes one of the free seats.

"I was behaving admirably - it's the others you ought to lecture."

"I'm not here to lecture you," Azazel assures him.

Erik glances down from the ceiling for a moment. "They think I'm a traitor," he states. " _Me_. I created this world."

"They're worried. Everyone is." Azazel's gaze is steady and unwavering, never flinching. "With the HMA out in the open, the world you created is changing."

"Not necessarily," Erik insists. Nothing has to be different, nothing at all.

Yet the look that Azazel gives him is incredibly sceptical. "We are moving from our war-ravaged present to a democracy. Do you remember what that's like, Erik?"

Erik grunts. The Brotherhood holds elections, but it is still incredibly rare that anyone is brave enough to run against him. Knowing how hard-headed Charles is, Erik thinks that he will have some stiff competition the next time the voting booths open up.

"I remember." He's going to have to debate. With Charles. In public. He groans at the thought. "Why can't this be simple?"

"Don't ask me," Azazel says. "You were supposed to have him on our side by now."

"If you or Mystique ever thought that was going to happen, you must never have spent a single day at Charles's side." He looks towards the door and internally debates the merits of simply walking out and never coming back - but he knows that that isn't possible. He has too many responsibilities; for all that he wants to be with Charles and he wants it to be easy, he needs the mutants of the world to be safe and protected far more than that.

"What can I do?"

Erik groans and leans back, because he honestly doesn't have an answer for him. He wants this fixed but he doesn't know how to make it happen. "Make sure they know I have no intention of selling them out to the HMA," he instructs with a sigh. "That'll do for now."

Azazel nods and leaves when he's asked. With his meeting cancelled, Erik has an unexpected burst of free time. He spends it alone in the room, his thoughts buzzing, his heart sinking, his fist clenched.

*

Charles calls him at the same time as usual that evening. Erik allows him to carry the bulk of the conversation, only joining in when the appropriate pauses require it. He becomes very adept at humming and grunting when he needs to.

"So," Charles says eventually, after he's already relayed the ins and outs of his day to a less than appreciative audience. "Do you want to talk about whatever's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he answers reflexively.

This time, it is Charles's turn to hum at him. "You don't have to tell me. I don't mean to pry - you seem upset, that's all."

Erik frowns to himself, alone in his flat with only Charles's disembodied voice for company. He doesn't want to sound upset. He doesn't want to _be_ upset, but he certainly doesn't want anyone else to be able to tell when he is.

His jaw clenches for a moment. There are a lot of answers that he could give Charles, a great deal that he could say to explain his mood. There's nothing worth talking about, however. He doesn't even want to think about it. Instead he says, "I know you're too busy to come back over here. Can I visit you instead?"

"In Oxford?"

"Yes."

"Don't you have work?"

"Fuck them," Erik answers. In return, Charles gives a startled laugh that is enough to ease Erik's frown into the beginnings of a smile. "I mean it. They can cope without me for a few days. I want to see you."

There's a long pause that twists like a knife. "Will you have that helmet of yours with you?" Charles asks, quiet and gentle.

The thought of going near Charles again without any level of protection is a daunting one. Everything will be open to him: every stray thought and fleeting emotion. Erik could be jerked around like a puppet and controlled without being able to resist. Yet he screws his eyes and shut and promises, "I can leave it behind."

"And what are you coming for? I still have no intention of sleeping with you."

Erik's smile doesn't waver; he only feels fond, despite knowing that being close to Charles and talking to him without fighting or fucking is bound to leave him desperate. He's okay with that.

"I'm having a bad week," he admits reluctantly. "I really do just want to see you. I promise that I have no designs on your virtue."

He hears the sound of Charles's scoffed amusement, and wants to hear it again and again for the foreseeable future. "My couch is free whenever you want it," Charles offers. "If you're very good, I might even let you sleep in the bed."

"You are a terrible tease, Xavier," Erik scolds, but he hardly means it. Already the suspicions of his co-workers feel miles away, and the Department of Security feels like only a minor annoyance, and the looming crush of his political landscape is nothing more than scenery. If Charles will keep putting up with him, Erik thinks he could conquer the world once more.

*

He takes the slow route to Oxford, even though Azazel insists that he could ferry him back and forth instead. _You could still attend your functions_ , he had suggested. _I'll pick you up and take you straight back afterwards._

Erik thinks that perhaps Azazel does not understand what it means to take a break. It's possible that he is working the poor man too hard.

After spending the day on a plane, which is frightfully dull even in first class, Erik sincerely regrets that he failed to take Azazel up on his offer. It's been such a long time since he's resorted to regular transport that he had forgotten what it was like. Inhumane, that's what it is.

He has a pair of dark sunglasses over his eyes, as if that might protect his identity. Head down, he shuffles through the achingly slow crowd. It's as if they have nowhere important to be, as if it doesn't matter to them when they get to their destination. Clearly they don't have an infuriating figure like Charles waiting for them. If they did, they'd hurry along.

He manages to slip past them like a rugby player on steroids, no doubt making himself several enemies along the way. His only luggage is the rucksack on his back, so he at least manages to avoid the dull wait at the carousels.

He's feeling rather proud of himself for his incognito approach to travel, until he emerges into the main buzz of the airport. There he finds Charles waiting for him, fingers pressed to his temple, amused quirk on his lips.

The sight of him makes Erik's stomach clench with nerves; the notion of butterflies truly doesn't do it justice. Yet he doesn't halt his pace, striding easily towards Charles as he takes in the sight of him like a starved man. In a cardigan with patched elbows and loose-fitting slacks, Charles looks every inch the professor - not a brothel-owner or political opponent today, then.

"Erik," Charles says in greeting when Erik gets close enough. He stops an arms-breadth away from Charles and holds back the urge to close the distance between them entirely. "I hope you had a good journey."

"I hate planes," Erik answers. He then it amends it with, "No, I hate _people_. I'd have taken the jet, but it's a bit conspicuous."

Charles's smile turns from fond to amused, his teeth exposed like a predator. "I like the sunglasses," he tells him.

"I thought they might stop people from recognising me," Erik admits sheepishly.

"An admirable attempt," Charles says.

"Don't humour me," Erik grouches. "I know what you're up to."

Charles waggles his fingers at him, still poised near his temples. "Just a precaution. I could sense you coming through their thoughts."

Erik's gaze washes over him appreciatively: "You are remarkable," he says, the words slipping from him before he can think better of them.

Charles grins as if Erik has just told a splendid joke. "Come on, you can buy me coffee. After the morning I've had, I'm feeling in need of caffeine..."

*

They stop at a cafe where Erik can complain about the idiots on his flight and where Charles can tell him that the undergraduates he is lecturing to are all, "Sadly missing the point."

"You mean they're stupid."

Charles unsuccessfully hides his smile against the rip of his cup of coffee. "I wouldn't be quite so blunt about it."

"Of course not." Erik dumps another sachet of sugar into his drink. "That's why you have me."

"I suppose you do have your uses," Charles muses thoughtfully.

The glint of mischief in his eyes is going to be the death of Erik one of these days. It makes every goddamn thing Charles says sound like a come-on.

"I'm actually going to be busy tonight," Charles admits later. "Do you think you'll be able to amuse yourself for a few hours?"

"I've survived without you for so long," Erik points out, but he has to ask, "What are you up to?"

"Can't tell you that. Top secret HMA business."

Erik stares him down over their drinks. He thinks he's getting quite good at it.

Charles smiles, and perhaps that isn't quite the intended effect but he likes it all the same. "Relax, we aren't planning a revolution," Charles assures him. "I'm hoping it'll be a rather civilised affair."

Erik snorts. Charles quirks an eyebrow at him and nudges his leg beneath the table. It's a little bit like a kick and a lot like a prod. It doesn't hurt a bit; the contact tingles. Erik would quite happily stay here forever.

*

Erik makes himself at home in Charles's quaintly decorated house, settling in while Charles goes to his meeting. There are books on every surface and the kitchen is surprisingly well stocked. It's a house that feels well lived-in, cosy and comfortable. Erik can easily imagine living in a place like this, can easily imagine sharing meals with Charles over his kitchen table.

He tries to rein himself in before his imagination can run too wild. They're friends, now. It's a tense knife-edge, this friendship; his veins pound with the need for more, but it's still so far beyond what he's ever had before that he can't risk jeopardising it.

He finds a copy of Charles's undergraduate dissertation, hidden at the bottom of a pile of books. Disregarding all other potential reading material, he settles down with that alone and spends his evening losing himself in Charles's science: clear but intelligent, even an outsider like himself can follow it along.

It's almost midnight by the time he hears the front door open and close. He closes the dissertation guiltily and tosses it back onto the pile of books, snapping back to his feet in an instant.

"Erik? I'm back," Charles calls cautiously.

Erik can sense that he isn't alone: more metal has entered than would do with any normal person, more than even several would. He edges towards the doorway, his muscles tensed, his power reaching into the space he can't see.

The metal forms a skeleton, as if Charles has brought a robot home with him. It's a strange substance, one that he's rarely come across before. His mutation ripples through it, exploring, like a blind man running his hands across a face he can't see. His hand forms a fist - heart thumping, just in case.

"Erik?" Charles calls again.

Charles opens the door to disturb Erik while he is in the midst of cataloguing the metal Charles has brought with him. He jerks as conspicuously as if he has been caught with his hand down his trousers. Charles's lips form an amused smirk.

"I hope you haven't been too bored," he says.

"Who's here with you?" Erik asks. "What's going on?"

The smirk fades into concern and Charles holds his hands up, palms-forward. "It's okay," he says, as if he is talking to a spooked horse. "They're my housemates. That's all. It's okay."

"I'm not a child," Erik snaps. "Don't talk to me like that."

Charles nods slowly and takes a step back. "Jean, Logan," he calls behind him. "Do you want to come and meet Erik?"

Two strangers file into the room - for all that Charles claims they are friends, the man has a distinct air of hostility to him. He's the one that brings the metal with him; Erik can feel it throughout the man's body. It's enthralling. He wants to tug and pull at it, wants to see how he would react.

Charles introduces him as Logan, but all the man does is grunt at him. It's like staring down a rabid dog on a leash.

"You're going to get yourself killed with this," Logan tells Charles - and Erik can feel his jaw moving as he speaks, can feel each twitch and turn of metal.

Logan leaves without a word to Erik. The other housemate seems to be slightly warmer towards him. She extends her hand; her palm is warm and gentle, but her grip is firm. "Ignore Logan," she advises him. "We all do."

"He's charming," Erik murmurs. He can feel the man in the house, sense him even when he's prowling in his bedroom upstairs. "What's his mutation?"

Jean arches an eyebrow at him; she smiles just like Charles does, with a hint of a smirk in the corner. To the side, Charles clears his throat. "Logan has a fairly extraordinary healing ability," he says, "but I imagine it's his skeleton that interests you."

"I can sense him," Erik says. He can feel the metal calling to him. "It isn't a mutation?"

Charles hesitates for a moment before he shakes his head. "That is Logan's story to tell, I'm afraid," he says. "He's rather convinced that you're here to arrest or kill me."

Erik looks up towards where he can sense Logan's bedroom. It's tempting to trip him up in retaliation. "I'm the one that's surrounded by the enemy."

"'The enemy'?" Charles sighs at him. "Really. This is why we were better off speaking over the phone, you know."

Jean takes an awkward step back towards the door. "I'll make some tea," she offers.

Erik hardly notices her going. His attention is focused solely upon Charles. "We're not better off over the phone," he insists. "I came here to see you - I didn't anticipate that you'd rather be out conspiring against me with the HMA the entire time."

"What was I supposed to do?" Charles complains. "I could hardly clear my entire schedule at short notice. We're still scrambling to recover from coming into the open. You may not have noticed it, Erik, but we're in the middle of a political crisis. I may have to run against you in the next elections - I may have to become the Leader of the free world. You may be able to walk out on the Brotherhood; I don't have the luxury of turning my back, not any more."

"I have not 'walked out' on them." He wouldn't do that - he could never do something like that. "I've taken a few days off. You'd think I'd stabbed them in the back with the way everyone is reacting."

"I'm not 'everyone'. I'm not trying to accuse you of anything. I have responsibilities. That's all; I'd appreciate it if you would respect them."

_Respect._

Isn't that a difficult concept for the pair of them?

"I shouldn't have come here," Erik says. It seems perfectly clear now. They had been getting along marvellously when there were miles and oceans and phone lines separating them. He should have carried on with what they had. "I'll go home tomorrow."

"Don't be silly," Charles says. "You're here now. Let's make the most of it."

Erik frowns and waits for Charles to elaborate.

Charles steps towards him and takes his hand, leading him towards the couch. He places him down and then sits on the opposite side himself. The gap between them feels like the universe itself. "If we're going to do this, we need to do it properly," he says. "We need to try."

"I am trying," Erik mutters. "I spent hours in an overcrowded plane just to _try_. You're the one that keeps sabotaging my attempts."

The moments of silence before Charles answers are some of the most terrifying that Erik has ever sat through. He waits and wishes it was war again so that he could hit Charles with a block of metal and be done with it. It would be far simpler.

"Right," Charles says decisively. "Wait here."

"What?"

Charles doesn't listen to his objections, however - he merely stands up and heads out of the room, leaving Erik with nothing more than a pile of books and a heavy sense of foreboding. Coming here had probably been a mistake. The last time that he had been on this couch had been when he had invited Charles into his mind - his control had been stolen from him.

He'd forgotten, in the interim, what a quietly terrifying presence Charles could be.

He runs his hand over his face and tries to rid himself of that notion. It isn't right; it's hardly fair. He's trying hard to trust Charles again, but when he's in the presence of that power without his helmet it's difficult to trust anything at all, even his own mind.

His thoughts are interrupted by the shrill blast of his phone's ring. He winces at the sound of it and reluctantly pats his pockets as he tries to locate the blasted thing. Should've left it behind. Should have cut himself off entirely.

He pulls it from his trouser pocket and then stares at the screen in confusion. _Charles_ , claims the Caller ID.

Feeling increasingly odd, Erik answers.

"I thought we could give this a try, since we only seem able to be civil to each other when we aren't in the same room."

This is ridiculous. Erik really should not be smiling. "Charles, come back in here," he instructs. "I promise to be nice."

"I'm perfectly comfortable out here, thank you," Charles tells him primly. Erik can hear him laughing. God, he hates this man. He is so perfectly frustrating. "So, how has your evening been?"

"It's getting stranger by the second," Erik confesses. He slouches down on the couch and spreads his legs, growing comfortable inch by inch. "What do we do now?"

"What we usually do," Charles suggests. "Talk to me."

"Where are you?" Erik insists. He ought to play along, if only because they are now both smiling instead of scowling at each other. It's a remarkable improvement.

"Just outside the door. We could talk with my mutation but I don't think you'd enjoy it much," Charles admits. "I'd need to enter your mind."

He remembers Clive's words, his warning, of what Charles would offer. He feels an invisible shiver travel down his spine. "Charles, I..."

"It's okay. I wasn't asking." Charles sounds far too cheerful. He can hear the tinge of regret all the same. "That's what phones are for."

"It isn't about you," Erik assures him in a rush. "I would react to any telepath in the same way."

"You don't have to apologise."

"I wasn't." He hardly thinks he should have to. The sanctity of the mind is a fragile thing. "I was clarifying matters so you wouldn't be confused."

Charles chuckles, and Erik imagines that he can feel the heat of his breath against his cheek. "Around you I am constantly confused, my friend," Charles confesses. "If we're going to do this, if you're going to be here, I need you to try to trust me."

"I don't want anyone in my head."

"No, I don't mean with that," Charles promises. "I mean - If I go out, you shouldn't have to worry that I'm conspiring against you. When I come home with my flatmates, you needn't assume that they wish you harm. That level of paranoia will do neither of us any good."

"It's hardly intentional."

"Of course," Charles assures him. Not for the first time, Erik thinks that this would all be so much easier if Charles would stop being so pleasantly understanding. "At the meeting today, everyone was trying to convince me that you have an ulterior motive for being here. They think it's suspicious that you would turn up so soon after I revealed myself as the organisation's leader."

Erik wets his lips before he answers. "What do you think?"

"Me? I think that you absolutely have an ulterior motive," Charles says casually. "As it involves getting into my pants rather than trying to kill me, I decided against mentioning it to the others. Rather private, that one."

"I promised to stick to the chastity rule." He's grinning again, sharp teeth on show; it makes him feel a little bit manic, but that seems fitting for the night so far. Charles seems to take great pleasure in tugging his emotions back and forth.

"I have learned over the years never to put too much stock in a politician's promises," Charles answers warmly. "It's safer for all involved."

"You're a politician now too," Erik points out.

"Yes, that's true. I suppose you'd better start doubting all of my promises too." Charles makes a musing hum. "I ought to start doubting my own, for that matter. This is all going to get terribly tangled, isn't it?"

"Most definitely," Erik confirms. He sits forward on the couch, leaning his arm against his knees. "I think you can come back through now. I promise I'll try not to argue - and I'm promising that as myself, not as a politician."

"That's very slippery of you," Charles says, but the door swings open all the same. He leans against the door jam, still holding his phone to his ear. Erik struggles with the desire to walk across the room and _touch_ him - however he can, whatever Charles will allow. "I hate arguing with you. I really do."

"You should start agreeing with me all the time, then," Erik suggests, although he feels faintly ridiculous still talking into his phone when Charles is right there in front of him. "It would make things a lot easier."

"I don't think 'easy' is an option. Not for us."

Erik gives a dry puff of amusement. "I've been waiting five years for a chance at this," he reminds him. "I can put up with a little adversity."

Charles watches him for a few moments, his blue eyes deep and distant. It makes Erik want to straighten his back and square his shoulders like a soldier snapping to attention. Charles lowers the phone from his ear and hangs up, leaving Erik with nothing more than a dial tone.

"Okay," Charles says, as if he's answering a question that hasn't yet been asked. He nods in determination. "Okay, let's try this."

"Try what?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." Charles moves into the room with awkward grace, as if he no longer knows what he's supposed to do with his limbs. "I have a chess set, you know."

"I beat you last time, didn't I?" Erik says - as if he could ever forget, as if that night isn't burned into his memory through years of fond longing.

"I'm still sure you cheated," Charles insists. "Rematch?"

Erik ends the night smothered in sleeping bags on the couch, tossing and turning as he attempts to sleep. For all his discomfort, he hasn't felt this at peace in a long time. His apartment has never felt like _home_.

*

By the end of his third day in Oxford he has multiple missed calls on his cell phone, most of which are from Azazel. Voice-mails too, although he's avoiding listening to those. He's sure that they will only be there to scold him.

"I don't mind if you want to answer," Charles tells him, while they're working together to try to make an edible dinner. "I promise not to be offended."

"I never thought you would be," Erik answers with a flash of confusion.

He turns his phone off for the time being.

*

At the end of the evening, the dishes are stacked next to the sink, and Logan has wolfed the leftovers. Through the open blinds Erik can see the dark night outside and the glow of the street lamps. The clock on the wall tells him that it's far past midnight.

"I ought to go to bed," he says, even if he is loath to end the evening. "You have work tomorrow morning. We can't have you yawning through your lecture. The undergrads would be appalled."

"They'd probably cheer me on," Charles says, standing at his side as they both watch the empty street before them. Erik feels the prickle of Charles's gaze on the side of his face and goes still, holding himself motionless for Charles's appraisal. "Would you like to sleep upstairs tonight?"

He looks towards Charles then, because there is nothing an empty street can offer that could be more interesting than him. "Pardon?"

"Just sleeping," Charles says with a wry smile. "That sofa must be playing havoc on your back."

It is hardly the most comfortable thing in the world, Erik can easily admit that much. As a matter of fact, he's certain that it's a medieval torture device. He ought to let the Department of Security know about it - he's sure it would give them countless dangerous ideas.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "I don't want to pressure you into anything."

Charles's smile is most definitely a smirk. "I think I've shown most successfully that you are completely incapable of doing that," he points out. "I'm more resilient to peer pressure than anyone seems to think."

Erik can hardly argue with that. Mystique and Azazel's plan to talk him into more acceptable political views had always been doomed to failure; Charles is the most extraordinarily stubborn creature to have ever existed.

"Come on," Charles says, taking hold of Erik's hand.

His grip is soft and steady as he leads Erik up the thin stairs of their house, past more piles of books and pictures that are hung on the wall. They wish good night to Jean on the way past her bedroom, and receive a grunt from Logan when they pass by his door. Charles's bedroom is the last door on the left, and when he opens it for him Erik feels more nervous than he had known was possible.

They putter around, getting in each other's way as they try to brush their teeth at the same time, bumping elbows. Getting down to their sleepwear is far from a striptease; it's a fumbled muddle and Charles goes to bed still wearing his socks. For all the sights that the Manor has offered him, Erik thinks that this one is still his favourite.

Charles's bed is relatively small, compared to the over-sized mattress that occupies Erik's apartment back home. It means that Charles is perilously close to him, just a hands-breath away as they lie on their sides and look at each other, breathing in the silence.

Charles's hand closes the distance and rests on Erik's side through the soft cotton of his white t-shirt. "Charles," Erik breathes, a quiet purr - he doesn't know what they're doing any more. He can't make sense of anything.

"It's alright," Charles promises, while his hand does nothing more than _rest_ there, a warm weight that is the sweetest torture Erik has ever experienced.

Charles's eyes are wide and dark in the dim light from his bedside lamp; the room is filled with cosy shadows, and when Charles cautiously closes the slim distance between their mouths it feels as if they've been doing this for years.

Erik keeps his hands to himself, folded beneath his head like an extra pillow, his weight as the restraint he needs to contain himself. Charles's mouth is a light treat, carefully lingering, never promising more than he is willing to deliver.

Erik's lips part for him and Charles licks inside, shallow and tender, before he pulls back and leaves Erik's heart stuttering. They rest their heads on the pillows and watch each other; Erik can take in every detail of Charles's face without feeling guilty for doing so, because he knows that Charles is doing the same to him.

He has spent so many nights in the Manor - he has spent thousands of dollars to romp through luscious rooms and to indulge every bare fantasy that could spring to mind. None of it matters. Not a single second feels worth as much as lying here and breathing the same air as Charles. God, Charles has turned him into a terrible romantic. It's the final sign of how evil he can be.

"I'm glad you came," Charles admits in a whisper.

Erik's hand slips from under his head to thread his fingers with Charles and hold on tightly. There are too many things for him to say; they all get caught in his throat, held at bay by the rare openness in Charles's eyes and the vulnerability of their positions. There's too much - and yet it's all already said, it's all already there for Charles to see. When they sleep, it is warmer and more comforting than anything Erik has experienced since long before the war.

*

He wakes up with a distinct, sharp prodding in his side. His eyes creak open. Charles is a sleeping lump curled against him, warm and docile with his heavy breaths only a half-step away from snoring. His hair is a sleep-churned mess and he has red creases from the pillow pressed into his cheek. It's a sight he could get used to.

The sight of Azazel standing over the bed and prodding him with his tail, however, is one that he could happily do without.

Erik rolls onto his back and blinks up at him, hoping desperately that this is a nightmare.

"Azazel," he slurs as he struggles to wake up. "This is unexpected."

"I've been trying to call you," Azazel says. "You've been ignoring me."

"I thought you might take a hint. Do you know what a 'holiday' is?" He disentangles himself from Charles with no small sense of reluctance. Sitting up requires entry into the cold air.

"Riptide wants to contest your leadership," Azazel states, "and the media is convinced you have gone missing: _The Daily Mail_ thinks you might be dead."

Erik groans and remembers Charles using his mutation to guide photographers and journalists away from them. It is remarkably easy to live off of the grid when you have a telepath by your side. "Riptide is doing _what_?" He's going to crush the man's feeble head once he gets back.

"Might I suggest that we have this conversation elsewhere?" Azazel's dark gaze flicks down towards where Charles is stirring. They shouldn't speak about this, not in front of him.

Erik waves him out of the room and gets dressed, locating his neatly folded clothes on top of Charles's chest of drawers. He sits back on top of the covers, listening to the sound of Charles's heavy breathing. His fingers wind their way into his hair and stroke through it absentmindedly. He needs to go home. He knows that.

He _can't_.

"I'm awake," Charles murmurs, pulling him from his thoughts before he can rise naturally. "Vaguely, anyway. Was that Azazel?"

Erik nods, then clears his throat. "I think I have to go back," he admits reluctantly. "They need me."

Charles closes his eyes and rolls onto his back, looking up at Erik with the most temptingly sleepy expression Erik has ever seen. He wants to slip far back under the covers and sleep for a week with Charles at his side.

"Don't worry about it," Charles says. "This bed isn't going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere either."

Yet there's a ball of heat gathered in the centre of his chest, rage and frustration and irritation. "We were making progress," he insists. They had been getting somewhere, the pair of them - he doesn't want to go back to the beginning, doesn't want to go spiralling back to the dark where he is alone, always alone.

Charles smiles, lazy and content in a way one can only ever be first thing in the morning. "Progress cannot exist in isolation. We can't hide away in a bubble, Erik; we have responsibilities, both of us."

Erik sighs. "You are far too coherent first thing in the morning," he complains.

"It's a gift."

"A nuisance."

Charles groans and starts to sit up, before Erik puts a hand on his shoulder and stops him. "Go back to sleep. You've got another hour or so before you need to be up," he says. "I, on the other hand, probably need to go before Azazel decides to kidnap me."

Charles looks up at him with a fondness that makes his chest ache. "Good luck," he says.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Erik promises. "Azazel owes me that much." And, to be honest, the mere thought of putting himself on a plane again is too distressing for words. It's impossible to take the private jet without alerting the entire world of his whereabouts - Azazel is by far the best option.

Charles props himself up on his elbows. "Kiss me before you go?" he asks, as if the concept of refusing him would ever come to Erik's mind.

And it doesn't matter that they are both sleep-crumpled and sharing morning breath; the brush of Charles's lips is still the most perfect thing that Erik has ever known.

"I'll see you soon," he promises against Charles's mouth, painfully aware that he has to leave, that he has to summon the strength of will to go.

"You can count on that," Charles murmurs back. "I plan on irritating you for a long time to come."

Between the HMA and the Manor, Erik has little doubt that Charles will be able to stick to that plan. As he leaves him sprawled in his bed, a living temptation, Erik can't look back: Charles will be the end of him, he knows, the enemy nestled among his pillows.

He pulls himself away and enters the real world, where they must be politicians and madams and enemies - comfortable in the knowledge that a warm bed will be waiting for him when he needs it.

 

_.fin_

**Author's Note:**

> A pre-story timeline of events can be found [here](http://fic-flail.livejournal.com/162373.html).


End file.
